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ORIGINAL 

COTTISH RHYMES; 

WITH 

HUMOUROUS AND SATIRICAL 

SONGS. 



By DAVID WEBSTER, / 



1L 




PAISLEY: 

CALDWELL AND SON, 2, NEW-STREET. 
1835. 






GIFT 
POC JAMES B. CHiL-CZRl 
^>>^ JULY 26. 1944 



fc- 



THE FOLLOWING 

LITTLE VOLUME OF SCOTTISH RHYMES 

IS HUMBLY DEDICATED TO 

Mr. JOHN M'LEAN, 

HURLET, 
BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, 

THE AUTHOR. 



, 



CONTENTS. 



Addjress to Fame, -147 

Alexander Wilson's Elegy, 145 

Ance Bacchus in a Frolic, 158 

Blasted Hope, 210 

Bowers of Greenlaw, 14 

Braes o' Craigmaddie, 189 

Burns's Courtship, 11 

Cameron's got his wife again,... . Ill 

Canty Carle , 98 

Clear rows the bonny burn o' Awn, 174 

Come a' ye Bards, CI 

I Contemplations and Reflections, 183 
'Cripple Flea, 161 

(Despairing Bard, 219 

Donald Gun, 87 

Droll Will Dunbar, 141 

Drucken Will Johnston, 42 

Duntocher Lasses, 61 

Epigram on Johnny Andrews, . . — 

on Matthew Comb, .... — 

on Rab Bonner, 144 

on Tommy Snek, 160 

Epistle to a Friend, 195 

to a Youth 168 

to Ch F ng, .... 54 

to David Webster, 185 

to John Fisher, 206 

to J. T— h— 11, 104 

toW mT n, 87 

Epitaph on Davie Deil, 96 

Epitaph on J . Cameron, 96 

Fanatic's Mirror, 7 

Fragment, 143 

Fragment, 217 



Groans from the Garret, 



100 



Hameward Willie, 93 

Here's to the lads of our Isle, 192 

Highlandman's Account of his 
Maj esty 's Visit to Scotland , . . 35 

Irish Song, written in Scotland,. . 204 

Jacobus Lurkman, 170 

Jock Saut the Cadger, 202 

John Tamson's Bairns, 18 

Kilwinning Lasses, 130 

Lads frae Craignaught and the 

Police, 103 

Let us be merry a', 127 

Lovely Nancy Shearer, 123 

Mad Maid, 12 

Maid o' Mosswallow , 85 

March of Intellect, 155 

Meg Meikle John, 62 

Miller o' Doon, 129 

Miller o' Partick, 17 

Minstrel, 63 

Minstrel's Dirge, 173 

Mournfu' Ditty, 199 

Mungo Martin, 9 

National Song, 20 

Near the cot on yonder brae, .... CO 
Now simmer days, G3 

Ode to Alexander Wilson, 49 

Ode to the memory of Burns,. . . . 131 
Ode to the memory of Tannahill, 33 
O lassie why rows that round tear 

from thine eye, 219 

OnG M 48 

On Garnock's banks, r 41 

O its gleefu' to glide, 9 



On a summer evening, 122 

O sweet were the hours, 45 

On seeing a bigot laid in the grave, 112 

O smile on me, 116 

O Mar>- dinna gang frae me, .... 172 
O wha wad leave, 53 

Pastoral Song, 183 

Paisley Fair, 3 

Paisley Pate to Davie o' Dum- 

blane, 123 

Paisley Races, 193 

Pate Birnie, 59 

Pedantic Bodie, 125 

Proverbs, 211 

Rab Kicky's Epitaph, 64 

RadicalWar, 30 

Reflections of Tannahill, 29 

Renfrew Fair, 81 

Robin's Jock cam to woo our 

Jenny, 40 

Rorie More, 113 

Rorie Murphy 26 

Rowand's Club, 117 

Row the Boatie to the Shore, 21 

Row smoothly thou bonny blue 

sea, 46 

Sandy M'Nab, 56 

Sally' M'Lurkan, 86 

Sarah's Lamentation, 137 

See the lovely moon, 28 

Shipwrecked Sailor, 218 

Soldier's Dream, 46 

Solemn dirge on the death of 

Alex. Wilson 216 

Song in the old ballad style, .... 58 



ii 


48 
64 

177 

190 

59 
47 
140 
215 
220 
55 
49 
112 

175 

64 

166 
214 
133 

164 

114 
94 

176 
15 

165 
22 

212 

92 
124 




Sour Milk Man's description of a 


Sunk wi' a sair and sullied con- 


Tak it man, tak it, 

The Cloud o' Night, 

The Maid o' Walkinshaw, 


The wise men's saying, 


Tibbie's MoUvgrant, 

Truisms, ...'. 

"Twas simmer, a' the fields were 




Verses on an intimate acquaint- 
ance of the Author, 

Verses in Memory of J. Cameron 

Verses on the doe Watty, 

Verses on Wm. Eddison, 

Washerwife's Son, 

We'll sing o' the mortal, 

What means that sigh, 

Wha wadna be blythe, 

When our gvdeman comes hame 


Witches o' Dumbarton, 

Wholesome Advice to a Priest,. . 

Ye'll hae heard o' a cheiL, 

Ve'll hae 6een, bonny lass, 



SONGS, &c. 



PAISLEY FAIR. 

Serenely the morning was dawning', 

The suny beams raise ow'er the hill ; 
Our beasts stood a 1 rowting and yawning - , 

By the side of a summer dry'd rill. 
The larks in the lift they were singing-, 

In notes baith harmonious and shrill ; 
And round me the woodlands were ringing 

To the clack of a neebouring mill. 

Then quoth I to my auld aunty Peggy, 

The morning's sae bonny and clear, 
Troth 111 e'en gang and saddle my naigie, 

And ride in to see Paisley Fair. 
But quo 1 she man ye're lucky light headed, 

Or else ye've grown lazy and slack ; 
Kens thou that at hame thou'll be needed, 

To help us to big the peat stack. 

But quo* I, the hearst on us is drawings 

We'll be toiling frae morning till dark, 
Trouth its either aye sawing or mawing, 

A young cheil gets naething but wark. 
Then I drew frae the boost the bit kibbock, 

And took to mysel' a bit whang — 
Wi' some bannocks weel baked by Tibbock, 

Wha's e'en been our servant sae lana - . 



Then I gied my beast warring and corning, 

Wi' twa heaped hanfu" o' beans — 
Hae, quo" I, tak thee that for thy ccrning, 

'Twill help to put strength in thy banes. 
Then aff I cam cheery and merry, 

I galloped down the lang lone — 
And soon met wi 1 mae in a hurry, 

A' makm* best speed to the town. 

There was Tam that wins down in the hallow, 

W i' haveral Jock Hodge frae Brae Side; 
W i 1 iheir doxes cl inttl'ects shallow, 

Mair scrim pit o' sense than o" pride. 
There was Peggy wi* een aye sae pawky, 

That bides at the head o" the glen ; 
And Nelly that thriftless gowky 

Wha's siller entices the men. 

Then quo" Tammy, quo* he, quo' Tammy, 

How's a the day, Willie M'Nair? 
I thank thee, quo* 1 to Tammy, 

And thou'll be for seeing the fair. 
And then, quo" Jock Hodge, quo" Johnny, 

As he turn'd round his red face — 
And thou'll be for trying thy pouney, 

Nae doubt at the thirty pound race. 

Now frae ilka by road they were thranging — 

Baith blind folk and lame, folk and weans; 
And straight to the fair they were ganging, 

And striddlen o'er hillocks and stanes. 
Then some o' them thought on their duddies, 

And ither's o' them on their crimes — 
But the maist thing that troubled the bodies, 

I think was their hungry wanies. 



We arriv'd man and stabled our horses — 

Syne a luncheon we took for support ; 
Then securing- our lang necked purses, 

Took a dauner to see a 1 the sport. 
And while we stood gaping- and staring, 

To a poor bodie singing- a sang:, 
Quo' a hizzie, Will buy rue my fairing — 

Losh ! thou kens thou has promised it lang. 

But the Corse it was a" in a bubble 

O" confusion and perfect uproar; 
Sae wV punch man we puslrd thro' the rabble, 

Till we cam' the length o' the score — 
There were dolts man and dinsome deceivers, 

Wha like statesmen impose upon man; 
And some silver-bunting believers, 

Wha catch a" the cash that they can. 

Now one by the wa'-side was wailing, 

"Gude christians, help an auld man;" 
While M'Adam was rantin 1 and railing, 

The cheapest goods under the sun. 
Here's veils for auld maids wrinkled faces, 

The cheapest and best here awa ; 
With Waterloo ribbons and laces, 

And penkniv es for naething ava. 

There was darners and clippers, and flowerers, 

Wi 1 bleachers ftf trig frae the braes — 
Wi 1 scogies, and cooks, and tambourers, 

Wha's clatter was a' on their claes. 
Braw lasses — but losh man their faces, 

We scarce got a peep o' ava ; 
Sae hidden they were in big cases, 

Or capes made o' strae, some said straw. 



But some roar'd the race was beginning — 

Hech Sirs sic a hullibaloo ; 
Frae taverns and tents they were rinning 

Some sober, and ithers blin fou. 
Then some roard the hindmost was foremost, 

And roos'd a Kilbirnie bit beast ; 
But I swore the first wad be foremost, 

Or that he wad be second at least. 

Neist we heard the wild beasts all a howling, 

And wild fools beginning to squake ; 
There a gowk 'bout the elephant was bawling, 

That it could do a' things but speak. 
Sae Nanny was oxterd wi" Tammy, 

And Nell}* ni 1 muckle Jock Hodge; 
Sae we drew out our siller fu' canny, 

And paid to win in wi" a grugde. 

The elephant stood in a closet, 

And whether for hunger or greed 
I kentna, but ay the big nose o*t 

Was wagging for bawbees and bread. 
Now as we stood staring and glowring, 

The lasses were shaking wi" fear 
Losh to see the big serpent devouring 

As meikle meat's sairt for 

There were fiddlers, and filers, and drummers, 

Wha play'd fur bawbees in a neuk ; 
With pipers, and droners, and bummers, 

And dogs that could dance by the beuk. 
But quo" Tarn, as we stood wi the tawpies, 

And leugh at the merryman"s tale, 
Deed, lassies, I'm e"en growing gawpish, 

We maun hae some buns and some ale. 



Syne resolved on a bit and a drappie — 

And be blythe as our daddies of yore, 
We daunert to mak oursels happy, 

Into wee Jamie Smith's* at the Score. 
There ae core was hauding a loudey, 

What neist they wad hae for to drink ; 
While some o' the tousy and tawdry, 

Were schemin' the way to get clink. 

At length we fell a' to the prancing, 

And louping like fools in the floor ; 
Sae wi 1 fiddling and diddling, and dancing, 

The house was in perfect uproar. 
But the sun in the west now was sinking, 

And gloamin 1 began for to fa' ; 
Grown tired wi 1 their daffing and drinking, 

Deed I thocht man I'd just come awa. 

Sae now I'm come hame, gude be thanket, 

To tak tent o 1 my grandmother's gear; 
I had but sax groats, tho' I drank it, 

Od, I'll surely win ow'rt in a year. 
But the first time I gang to the smiddie, 

As on Saturday teen I'll be there ; 
Gosh I'll gar them a' laugh round the study, 

Wi' the humours o 1 Paisley Fair. 



THE FANATICS MIRROR. 

Ecclefechan bodies a', 
Ecclefechan bodies a', 
Gude faith ye're devils in a thraw, 
You Ecclefechan bodies a\ 

• James Smith was, at the time this poem or ryhme was wrote, 
\ respectable and jocular innkeeper there, in whose house the 
mthor hns passed many happy hours. 






8 



If chance your pastor taks a drap, 

Ye flee like ravens on his tap — 

Ye ca* him drinker, drone and a', 

You Ecclefechan bodies a". 

And some amang ye waur design'd, 

Say that he's carnally inclin'd ; 

While the drap drink that synes his maw, 

Gets a' the wyte o 1 that and a\ 

The man is learned and divine, 
And ever spiritually inclin'd — 
But void o 1 gospel, sense, or law, 
Are Ecclefechan bodies a. 
Altho* he strives your minds to please, 
And gie your sinful souls a heeze; 
Nae man could please, no since the fa', 
You Ecclefechan bodies a\ 

Some cry for rain, some cry for drouth, 
Some wish north winds, some wish for south; 
While some want neither frost nor snaw, 
Vile discontented bodies a\ 
The poor chiel coudna fill your wants — 
He tauld his waes to ither saints ; 
Wha curs'd the noddles great and sma' 
Of Ecclefechan bodies a\ 

The Presbyfry began to yell, 
And threaten" d you wi* words o* hell — 
Ye didna care their threats a straw, 
But bade them tak the drone awa. 
Priests may preach and scribes may jaw — 
Sodgers may shoot — L— d waur than a' — 
Or ye wad shrink, or yield a flaw, 
You Ecclefechan bodies a\ 



9 



O could some chiel but turn the chace, 
And save a wild degenerate race, 
Some bard may chance be sav'd and a' 
Through Ecclefechan bodies thraw. 
But if they're doom'd by hook or crook, 
To gang to yon sulphuric neuk, 
Begin some dour religious thraw, 
Wha kens they'll fear the deil awa. 
Ecclefechan bodies, &c. 



SONG. 

To an Irish air. 
O its gleefu' to glide o'er the bonny blue sea, 

While the wee waves merrily play ; 
And hum a sweet sang o' some love-beaming e'e, 

As the bark gently heaves on her way 
And its joyfu' to land on a far rocky isle, 

And listen the mountaineers sang — 
Then feast for a while on the mountain-maid's smile, 

And the words frae her artless tongue. 

Then how pleasing the hour in the turf-cover'd bower, 

Where the een speak the heart sae free ; 
While the white waves roar on the rock-bounded 
shore, 

Is drowned by the sound of our glee. 
But 'tis sweeter to float upon morning tide, 

And skim o'er the wee waves to hame — 
Then sit gleefully down by our ain ingle side, 

And reap our past joys in a dream. 



MUNGO MARTIN. 
O saw ye Mungo Martin, 
Or stood ye at his study ; 



10 



What was his news to sic as those, 
Wha loung'd about his smiddie. 

Deed I saw Mungo — and his gab 
Gaed just as fasfs his hammer; 

And ay he roos'd ane plowman Rab, 
Who was a famous rhymer. 

Rab cheers the auld, he charms the young, 

Sets a 1 our hearts a babbin, 
Auld Scotland lang will shine in sang, 

And a' by dint o' Robin. 

Quoth Mungo, tho* the English louns, 

Can brag- o" meikle matter — 
Auld Scotland has within her bounds 

A chiel that's far their better. 
I'll swear by a" aboon the clod, 

And a* beneath the water, 
Our plowman loon will waur them a" 

At either sang or satire. 

When tyrants wr oppressive law, 

Our country rights were seizing — 
Then Rab wi' patriotic jaw 

Gied a" sic tykes a teizing. 
That o-ift they ca 1 poetic fire, 

In Bob was ever bleezing; 
He set their names in ruefu" raw, 

With laughable derision. 

Tho' bigotry abuse him, 

Wi' sour and sumphish sighing, 

A ? learned folk allows him 
Maist wisdom in the clachan. 

Yestreen his book perusing, 
When I had got my brochau, 



11 



Rab's wit in sic profusion, 
Keep'd a the bodies laughing;. 



With wieldy verse and jingling 

He sings o" 1 muirs and mosses ; 
With sublimities ay minglin*, \, 

He flashes and he flushes. 
As from the height Nigaria, 

Yon flood o* water gushes ; 
Frae Robin's percranium, 

The ready roundles rushes. 

But had ye seen the gleefu' group, 

That round the anvil gaped, 
Resolved to hear \vr open mouths, 

Just as their lugs were staped. 
Quoth ane, what do they ca" the book, 

For surely its a gude ane ; 
Quo' anither, quo* he, I'll buy the book, 

And I shall hae a reading. 

Then Mungo wi' a mirky face, 

And arm as teugh's a wudy, 
Confirm'd a* true that he had said, 

Wi 1 a thump upon his study. 
But Mungo Martin had grown dry 

Thro* extra jaw and jobbin", 
And he wad drink the plowman's health, 

And sae did we to Robin. 

Rob cheers the auld, &c. 



BURNS COURTSHIP. 

The Sun had just dipt his red cheek on the ocea, 
And seem'd as if playing keekbo wi 1 the moon ; 



12 



While the bonny maid moon wi' an e'e o' devotion, 
Was scarce a Scotch ell in the karry aboon. 
The bonny wee stars had begun a' to twinkle, 
And keek through the clouds that were hovering' 

around. 
And the bells o 1 auld Ayr had begun for to tinkle, 
Ae I met wi' my love on the banks o' the Doon. 

The lassie had stown frae a braw bleezing ingle, 
Unkent to the joes that at gloamin conven'd ; 
Sae we took our retreat down a lone bushes dingle, 
To tell our love tales in the howe o' the glen. 
The summer's salt breezes had sleeped on the moun- 
tain. 
And gentle the sough o' the far ocean swell, 
Then naething was heard but the clear siller fountain, 
That croon'd to the echoes that rung in the dell. 

The burnie was smooth, save the bonny wee dimple 
That rose on its face as it row'd to the sea ; 
And how lovely its sang round the rocks as it wimpl'd, 
'Twas soothings the sound o' the sweet fairy lay. 
And we felt the perfume o' the dew-silvered blossoms, 
By the cool zephyr breath'd as itwander'd the scene; 
But I list'ned a tale frae ane artless young bosom, 
That surpassed ilka sweet on the banks o' the Doon. 



THE MAD MAID. 

A mad maid had a sang 
Of a curious twang, 
That she sang to a tune of her ain — 
But it jumilt and jainilt, 
It wimilt and wamilt, 



13 



And aim'd aye at something in vain. 
The lines o't were crucket, 
And nicked and nucket, 

In a manner 1 scarce can explain — 
But theyjoukit and jinkit, 
The way they were linkit, 

Or cam frae some droll bodies brain. 



This maid in her maze, 

When the sun show'd his blaze, 

Sat and cruined by the fire wi' the cat. 
And ay when the moon 
Had grown meikle and round, 

She sang- to the owl and the bat ; 

But when Cynthia had gane 
'Tween the earth and the sun, 

And seem'd as in dumps wilh our world, 
This maid mair sedat, 
She span and she spat, 

With her spin'le, her roke, and her horle. 



The priest of the parish 

Pretended to nourish 
This maid that was wrang- in the mind ; 

But as care of her sense 

Cost him little expense, 
In that he was oftenest kind ; 

Ye'll agree an advice, 

Tho' baith wholesome and nice, 
Might be mend wi' a mixture of food — 

But the loun gied her lear 

With a screed of a prayer, 
When a luncheon wad done her mair gude. 



u 



Ae moon-shining night, 
When her head wasna right, 

And her stomach wi' hunger was sore; 
Weel row'd in a sheet, 
Wi* twa feet that were fleet 

She enter'd the clergyman's door ; 
From a weel cover'd table 
A' fled that were able, 

While some fell in swoons on the floor ; 
Left the boil and the roast 
For the gude o' the ghost, 

Wha escap'd with the basket and store. 

She took a* ehe could get, 
JBaith the cauld and the het, 

That was term'd a bit or a drap; 
She put in her coatie, 
That was tattered and sooty, 

And out by the lobby she lap. 
The beef and the lamb, 
The cheese and the ham, 

Might been carried wi' some sort of ea«e; 
But the tea and the jelly, 
Ran thro' on her bellie, 

And scaudit the poor bodies' thighs. 



THE BOWERS OF GREENLAW. 

"Tvvas summer — Nature's face was dress'd 
In Flora's flow'ry robes sac braw ; 

Dark clouds were louring in the east, 
And gloamin grey began to fa*. 

The sun had beam'd his part: 

The zephyrs cool began to blaw — 



15 



The mavis sang farewell to day, 
Amang thy bonny bowers, Greenlaw. 

'Twas then I trac'd thy leafy bowers, 

And press'd thy dew-enamePd shaw, 
With her, the fairest of thy flowers, 

Now from my bosom torn awa. 
And even when winter's dreary gloom 

The hills and dales had clad with snaw, 
My fav'rite flow'r was aye in bloom, 

Amang thy lovely bowers, Greenlaw ! 

O wae betide her artfu' wyles ! 

And wae on fickle fortune's thraw ! 
Her cheeks, her een, and O ! her smiles, 

Thro' life had been my joys o'er a*. 
Now when I seek thy chosen scene, 

Where warblers chaunt around thy ha'. 
Sae waefu' I maun stray alane, 

'Reft o* thy fairest flower, Greenlaw ! 

Yet will I wander frae the town, 

And muse on nature's beauties a' ; 
To see the summer sun gae down 

And twilight's dusky curtain draw. 
Soon flattering Hope, on Fancy's wing, 

Will banish former cares awa ; 
Of some true heart I yet may sing, 

Amang thy bonny bowers, Greenlaw ! 



SONG. 

Am — " Contented wi little, and cantie wt' mair." 
Wha wadna be blyther o'er a cogie o' ale, 
Wha wad luik sour at a humourous tale, 



16 

And wha when his neebour was dowie and sad, 
O wha wadna strive to make his heart glad. 
Wha wadna be cheerM wi' an auld Scottish sang, 
And wha wi' gude fellows, O wha wad think lang; 
And wha when we wish the downfa' o' our faes, 
O ! wha wadna join us wi' hearty huzzas. 

Awa ilka camseugh and hard-hearted loun, 

Ye fretfu' ye calous wi' hearts ne'er in tune ; 

Awa' ye unsocial — ye misers awa', 

Ye're strangers to pleasure to friendship and a'. 

Let luxury flow in the ha's o' the great ; 

Let the hearts o' ambition g-ang wrestle wi' fate; 

Tho' course be our fare, and tho' humble our shed, 

O'er the fruits of our labour we'll ever be glad. 

The gentry may slight us, and say that we're rude, 

And ca' us the rabble — the ignorant crowd; 

But where comes their riches, their learning, and shaw, 

It's the poor working body wha pays for it a*. 

Gude kens we hae teachers and preachers enou', 

Wha wi* dreepends and steepends are a' bet and fu ; 

But what wad they do for a kirk or a creed, 

Giff it werena wark bodies wha g'e them their bread. 

When the tree o' corruption shall wither and fa', 
W T hen oppressors shall fail to baud us at the wa' ; 
O'er our tithes and our taxes we'll cease to repine, 
And be blythe brave and free like our daddies lang- 1 

syne. 
Then let us be blythe o'er a cogie o' yill, 
Round the stoup and the cappy let friendship prevail 
May the sunshine o' freedom shame tyrants awa, 
Soon to gladen the hearts wha maun slave for them 



33 



| ODE TO THE MEMORY OF TANNAHILL . 

;Tis" not of battles that my muse now sings ; 
Traitors, nor tyrants, meeting their delists ; 
^s T or towns laid waste, the baser %ats of ki^s ; 
But thatanore fitting more refined hearts. 
BS T or is't o'er palaces slie spreads *her wings, 
brandeu* nor 'titles, baubles of the great; 
|S T or titles, nor iaxmen, nor such hateful things ; 
Something mofie lovely does my mind elate. 
•Nor is't of rambler, fop, nor sycophant, — 
[Those dinsome butterflies on life's vain stage, — 
Nor is't of ignorant devotees I vaunt, 
Such trifles never shall adorn my page. 
Nor am I -bound to drudge at satire Jeen, 
Tho' that which suits my end must suit my will ; 
Nor am I fij£d with flattery nor spleen ; 
But 1 -would <sing the praise of Tannahill. 

Tannahill Apollo's fav 'rite bard ; 
Had la Campbell's art, his fancy bright, 
Then I would give thy merit due reward ; 
Would my dull muse but take a higher flight. 
But like to many whim-inspired fools, 

I'm doonTd to pen the rude illiterate page ; 
Denied by fate the benefit of schools — 
Must bear the scoff of an enlightened si^e. 

1 spurn the thought— vow ne'er to write again, 
Shunn'd by the world, and Poetaster named; 
But rebel-like ideas convulse my brain, 

And 1 must write if 'twere but to be damn'd. 

Then weave, my fameless mule, thy odd like ode, 
I To hair the day that gave our Poet Birth — 



34 



Now .that my percraniuin now explodes, 

May turn some to madness, some to mirth. 

And must I W\\ the truth ? more fool am I : 

Since truA, in son odd lands, is counted crime 

But since I dont refer to rights and liberties, 

And since truth's slljidow makes good shift in rhyme 

Perchance my neck wont itch yet for a time. 

There's but a few pretenders in our shire, 

Who have attempt* to climb Parnassus' height, 

With Tannahill can tune the Scottish lyre, 

Or shine, in moral character, more brig-lit. 

Not thee, my muse, thy rude unpolished lay 

Can cope with him in poesy, I wot ; 

Nor all the crific self-conceited train, 

Who value man's productions by his coat; — 

Not I, nor no fanatic nine-aspiring- fool, 

Should e'er attempt to speak our Poet's praise ; 

Nor laboured verse, with complicated rule, 

Can paint the beauties of his lyric lay*;. 

Not him of affection, keen and fierce, 

Who strove in vain the harder hearts to melt ; 

Nor one pedantic fop's satiric verse, 

Whose satire soon will stink for lack of salt, 

Like some men's verses, scorned because of malt. 

Now like my country's lovely varied face, 
Tier lofty mountains, and her valleys low ; 
Permit me here to variegate the i 
From lighter lays, to graver themes of \\ 

O Tannahill ! of si eel Poetic art, 

*Tis death itself, but not a run of years, 
From breasts like mine thy memory shall j 
But sully not the Poet's fame with tear-, 



35 



j [f not his sacred drops, who now the laurel wears. 
! With mild, with manful philanthropic mind, 
i His every air spoke modesty and grace, 
I With godlike heart he felt for all mankind, 
Yea every being 1 of the human race, 
Mad every heart been feeling- as his own, 
•lad every tongue been modest as his was, 
Then had his breast escaped many a wound, 
\nd slanderous insult given through envy's en use. 
Avaunt ye critics, coward-like, avaunt, 
Nor spit your venom, nor throw your poisoned dart; 
Disturb no more the Poet's peaceful haunt, 
Men such as he who wore the finest heart. 
Tis known that mankind value water most 
When summer robs the fountain of its store, 
Nor would they own his worth till he was lost, 
Then felt for him when he could feel no more. 



THE HIGHLANDMAN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS 
MAJESTY'S VISIT TO SCOTLAND. 

As I went to my stable door, 

To gie my beast her corning-, 
Far frae the east the sun did glow'r, 

'Twas because it was the morning. 
Then I was thinking to mysel, 

A thought cam in my head, 
That I would a' my cows gang sell, 

Shust to save their winter's feed. 



Then I got sneeshin to my nose, 
From Glasgow a' the gate, 

And made a luggie fu' o' brose, 
In the mucklc timmer plate. 



36 



I dress'd me wi* my kilt and hose, 
My braw new plaid aboon, 

And syne I drov'd a drove of cows, 
Straught to the Lowlands doun. 

Then first I'll into Embroch go, 

A Merchant at the fair, 
Because especially, whether or no, 

The king* was coming there. 
"Twas no because he was our king, 

I gaed to see him barely, 
But just he was a far-aff frieiv 

Of the bonny lad Prince Charlie. 

Now I was sold off a* my cows, 

And got my business dune, 
Then took a turn to hear the news, 

East north thro" a* the toon. 
And then she'll sought the closes a", 

Yon Street they'll ca' a lane, 
For a Donald Gun, and Neil INI 'Craw, 

A third cousin o' her ain. 

Now the people that I didna see, 

Since I had seen before, 
Cam haudm out their hands at me, 

A 1 standing at their doors. 
And then they 11 speer gif that was me, 

Or was't my blither Sawney, 
Although they'll ken, as Boon's they'll 

'Twas deevil a ane but Danie. 

But now we' el hear the sodger drum, 
And the sodger piper bumming, 



«i 



37 



Then peoples said the King was come, 
And that he just was coming-. 

Though Scotland had seen the day 
Her King was nae sic stranger, 

Yet wad she stand, and dare the fae, 
Wad threaten him wi' danger. 

Some hurl the shaise, some gang their feet, 

And ither some wad ride, 
And when we sought the town o' Leith, 

Hoo, shust at the water side ; 
Mans said to me the day was line, 

And bonny the muir and hill, 
Shust as her nainsel's e'en was blind, 

And coudna see't liersel. 



There was shentleman frae o'er the sea, 

Baith frae the south and north, 
And mony the muckle ship and wee, 

Stood sailing on the Forth. 
And shust as soon's the King did land, 

The muckle guns did roar, 
To let us ken he was at hand, 

Or very near the shore. 



Now the sodger wad shoot a rattle shot, 

Wi' their guns up to the lift, 
And their captains wav'd their swords about, 

'Twas for want o' better shift. 
Her nainsel stood and glowerd about, 

And wadna speak for thinking, 
And aye she damned the rattle shoot, 

She couldna see for winking*. 



Then tlie muckle and wee, the big and sina, 

To shew they were discreet, 
Wi' bonnets aflf, in mony a raw, 

Stood standing; on the street. 
The gentry, as the King did pass, 

Did mak the muckle bow, 
But the flunky mans, wherefore, whereas 

Shust was bowing whether or no. 

The sodgers stood in lang straught raws, 

Wha guard us frac our faes, 
I5ut the sodger's horse was waur than a', 

They'll trampit on hini's taes. 
And there was mony bodies gay, 

And muckle din an roar, 
Wi" bands o 1 musickers to play, 

As weel behind' s before. 



The piper skirled aboon the rest, 

A loud and a bonny strain, 
Made something dunt within her breast, 

What was't she'll didna ken. 
The people a" did gie them praise, 

So weeFs they tun'd their chanter, 
Tlie like was ne'er in Babbie's da 

Nor famous Rab the ttauter. 



Now our Kino- stood hurling in a coach, 
With neither the roof nor the lid, 

And owcr him"s breast he'll wore a broach, 
Shust to mak him shentle blood. 

And as he'el glower frae place to place, 
Amang the clamourous en 



39 

He's put the laugh upon lmn's fa^e, 
Shust to shew he wasna proudt 



Then some wad crv, God s^ivc the King, 



And a b( 



word sic likf 



t 



And his Kingships nod to fckem %gam, 
Was shust as gude's Iiini si 

But they's gaed hurling him aw a, 
Some place ca*d Holyrooi?* 

But whar that was she didim saw, 
Nor didna understood. 



But weary fa" these shentleg a", 

For by their looks I'll ken 
They'll thoclit a' drover loons like me 

Was something less than men. 
But set them down before their faes, 

Or on a raging water, 
O then you'll see whall bear the gree 

Wi 1 the maist o 1 manly nature. 



Then shell grow as hungry shell be dry, 

The shange man 1 maun see, 
Wherefore shell didna need be shy, 

Shell had the brown bawbee. 
Though she'll ha^friends baith up and down, 

Whase houses was galore in, 
Yet the biggest friend in the Lowland toun, 

Was the penny in her sporran. 

So now the day began to wink, 
And hang the drowsy e'e, 



■ 



M 40 

But i^was the biggest day I think ' 

Tliat e"er my sight did see. 
And when the sun fled wi" day-light 
• Far wastfthe hills o' Lorn/ 
Herliain4el.saw as odd a sight — 
"Twas saj? mony cruisies burn. 

Ohon ! 'twad tak a muckle book 

To teft fae sights I saw ; 
How the Rowland loons did at me look — 

Hoot, they'll thoughtit I wa^ braiv. 
So when l'fl. to the Highlands' gang, 

As I'm shust now come hame, 
1*11 took tlie thought 1*11 made a sang, 

Shust to get a Poet's name. 



ROBIN'S JOCK CAM TO WOO OUR JENNY 

Old Ballad Style. 

Robin's Jock cam to woo our Jenny, 

'Twas on a Martinmas even, I trow, 
Jenny made wonderfu" light o" Johnny, 

Syne in her glaiks crap up the moo. 
My mither kent weel the lad had siller, 

Sair sair she Hate aj she drew at the rock ; 
My father spak loud and lownly till her, 

O fye Jenny, come down to Jock. 

Our blythe Bess cam in frae the byre, 
Fain was she to lend him a smile ; 

Ave she welcomed him ben to the fire, 
But Johnnv, daunted, was ill to wyle. 



41 



My inither cou'dna bide it langer, 

Bang'd her bobbin down on the wheel stock ; 
Up the mou-hause she flew in anger, 

Jenny, ye gawky, come down to Jock. 

Time seems fleetest aye to freemen ; 

Time gies joys and waes unsought; 
Time can turn the hearts o' women ; 

Time's grave lesson, is seldom forgot. 
Lang e'er the roses blush' d in summer, 

Lang e'er the heath bloomed red on the rocks, 
E'er the buds grew green on the thinner, 

Jenny was blyther to buckle wi' Jock. 



SONG. 

Air. — " Ettrick Banks." 

On Garnock's banks, whase bonny streams 

Row clearly to the western shore, 
Just as the sun wi' gowden beams, 

Had gilded auld Killarning tower. 
Happily then I chanc'd to rove 

Wi' Annie, o'er the dazied green, 
And catch'd the tokens of her love 

From glances o' her lovely een. 

The morn was mild, a' nature smil*d, 

Grey mist rose from the dewy plain ; 
The mavis sangiin woody wild, 

'Twas cordin wi' the lark's sweet strain. 
The cattle low'd, the burnie row'd 

Wi' pleasing murmurs doun the dale, 
The flowery lea, and hawthorn tree, 

Wi' fragrant sweets perfum'd the gale. 



42 



The scenes that smile 'neath summer's sky, 

I must confess, are gay to see ; 
But Annie's secret look paid sigh, 

Are blessings doubly dear to me. 
The dews that silverd o'er the hill, 

"Tho pure as diamond e'er could shine, 
Were nane sae pure's the tears that f 

To seal my lassie's vows and mine. 



DRUCKEN WILL JOHNSTON. 

YeUl hae heard o' Will Johnston, drucken Will 
Johnston, 
That muckle raw loon o" a smith, in our clachan ; 
■Od he drinks like a whale, at the whisky and ale, 
And lie waurs a' the parish at the supping o 
brochan. 

Yet he's lank and he's lean, 
He's a 1 shinnon and bane, 
Wi' a face like the back o* Pate Bimie's fiddle ; 
At a race or a loup 
There can nane wi" him cope ; 
Losh ! he lamps at the rate o four yards at a striddle 



This Will has a voice like a Norawa' bull, 

A tongue that can banter wi" lawyer or limmer; 
The strength o' a Samson was yaething to Will — 
He could shake a Dumbuck wi" a daud <»" his ham- 
mer: 

Auld aim and steel 
Begin for to reel, 
Whene'er he begins for to thump on his study ; 



43 



While auld carts and harrows, 
And broken wheel-harrows, 
(\re louping- like maukins around the hale smiddy. 



r 



s he toils at the study, wi' breeks black and duddy, 
He's fash'd wi' nae care 'bout the state o" his claith- 
ing; 
pe sings and he whis'les, he pushes and busies, 
Wr a heart that's as light as the air that he's 
breathing-. 

While he rattles and ring-es, 
Doors dance on their hinges, 
And rafters and roof a 1 aboon him are shaking-. 
I hae witness'd mysel 
His unmercifu 1 pell, 
Till my een they grew Win 1 , and my heart it g-acd 
quaking-. 

This skybal of late has been tied to his Kate, 

A lass that was said to be cleanly and pretty ; 
But look to her now, a' sae black round the num', 
Wi' her mutch and cartush baith sae tatter'd and 
sooty. 

When he meets wi' his cronies, 
In auld Deacon Johnnie's, 
He'll sit a hale day, and he'll wrangle and bully ; 
While the cattle unshod, 
May a' rest on the road, 
For the deevil a shoe they'll be shod wi' by Willie. 

When at hame frae his drinkin', a' noddin' and 

winkin', 
In the big- arm-chair then he loiters fu' lazy ; 
While wi' sleeping- and snoring-, and dreaming- and 

roaring-, 



u 



He's aneugh for to ding" ony wise woman crazy. 
But his Kate's like himsel,' 
She's baith crabbit and snell ; 

Folk say she's a deevil for raging and riving : 
Syne she skelps and she scaulds him, 
Baith bitches and bawls him, — 

She's as gude o' the dinging as he's o' the driving. 



Will reads nane, nor heeds nane, affairs o' the nation 

His thought's a' on siller, wi' eating and drinking; 

Kens nae mair "bout the kirk than a twa-year aultl 

stirk, — 

'Od he's just a raw loon, void o' feeling or thinking. 
When he joins in a joke 
Wi' douce honest folk, 
He dings them a" doited wi" swearing and banning ; 
For his head's like a block, 
Or a daud o' whin rock, 
And his scull it's sae thick he has nae understating 



This Willie's a sad man, O Willie's a mad man, 
Will's heart's like his hammer, his een they are 
tearless ; 
Id a strunt or a strife he's regardless o* life, 

For Willie's a man that's baith careless and tear- 
less. 

He's a wame wide and hollow, 
A brain toom and shallow, 
A nose like a carrot, and lantern jaws, man ; 
When he croons to himsel, 
Its a crack, or a yell, 
For Ins throat's like a risp, and lie sings like the 
craws, man. 



r, 



45 

Willie's apron, though short, yet it's glide o* the sort, 
j It was cut frae the skin o" his grannie's auld grunter, 
\n& tho' stiff as a slate, yet its on ear" and late, 
'Od it helps his auld breeks for to hap him in win- 
ter. 

Now ye'll a' ken Will Johnston, 
Drucken Will Johnston, 
hat sorrow for drink, and that glutton for brochan ; 
Troth he's gay an' kenspeckle, 
He's black and he's muckle, — 
He's the likest the deil e'er appear'd in our clachan. 


SONG. 

Air. — " Gregor Arorcu' 

sweet were the hours 
That I spent wi 1 my Flora, 

In yon gay shady bowers, 
Roun the lin o' the Cora. 

Her breath was the zephyrs 

That waft frae the roses, 
And skims o'er the heath, 

As the summer day closes. 

1 told her my love tale, 
Which seem'd to her cheering ; 

Then she breathed on the soft gale 

Her song so endearing. \ 

The rock echoes ringing 

Seem'd charmed wr my story— 

And the birds sweetly singing, 
Replied to my Flora. 



46 

The sweet zephyrs her breath, 

As it wafts frae the roses, 
And skims o'er the heath, 
As the summer dav closes. 



THE SOLDIERS DREAM. 

Ye've seen the changeful summer's sky, 

When loud the awful thunder rolls ; 
Then hae ye seen the transient joys 

Which fancy paints on human souls. 
While slumbering on yon distant shore ; 

My mind with love and danger prcss'd, 
! thought the maid whom I ador'd, 

Hung smiling on my troubled breast. 

Her air I thought approach'd divine ; 

Her every charm grew doubly sweet ; 
And oh ! what rapfrous bliss was mine, 

When former tales she did repeat. 
As bubbles perish on the stream, 

That dashes down yon rocVy fa", 
So lied the charmer of my dream, 
on as the rosy morn I saw. 



SOXG. 

Row smoothly thou bonny blue sea, 
Ye heavens look down with a smile; 

Ye winds, waft yon maiden to me, 
The lass o* the lonely green isle. 

The white waves that glance to the sun, 
And curl on the face o* the d 



47 



Are like to this bosom o' mine, 
So restless it reaves me asleep. 

But yonder her lilly white sail, 

Her boatie glides swiftly along- ; 
And 1 hear on the wings o 1 the gale, 

Her mariners chaunting a song. 
Like dew to the sun-wither'd rose, 

Like peace to the warrior's toil : 
She comes for to lessen my woes, 

The lass o' the lonelv green isle. 



LOVE SONNET. 

The cloud o' night fled west the bent, 

As morn began to dawn ; 
And soon the sun with golden tint, 

Did mark our mountain lawn. 
My Gutcher glad to see the light, 

Sang o'er his morning hymn ; 
And all the tuneful birds of flight 

Join'd in harmonious chime. 

I wandered the woodlands o'er, 

And climb the clifty hill ; 
I strove to sing of the wild flower 

That bloom'd beside the rill. 
The spirit of song had left my heart, 

All flight of fancy fled ; 
My brain was like the wild desert, 

Amidst creation dead. 

I pondered, I wondered, 

What made my heart sae wae; 



48 



I had nae peace in the shade o night, 

Nor in the shine o" day. 
I was not like that worldly race, 

Wha mourns for gowd awa ; 
O it was the frown of a bonny fai 

That made my spirit fa. 



ON G M 



What ail'd little Gaunie sae droll, sae droll, 

Wi" wee bodv, as wee a soul, a soul ; 

When the buTt o* a cow, gude meat for his mou\ 

W T as ready for roasting on coal, on coal. 

But Gaunie had wit and caredna to split 

Frae ganmerals whase brains he thocht b 

For the gude o' our town, the wee witty loon, 

In locquacity whyles at a loss, 

Said, your humble obedient, 

Thinks it expedient, 

That coals might be got in the m 

Some jok*d him to jeer, ither some wi' a sneer, 

Leuoii in the sleeve o' their coats ; 

But Gaunie raise up, and tauld ilk nincompoop, 

If ye dinna get coals, ye 11 get peats. 



STANZA. 

Danie the dronthv, and Danie the droll, 
]\lav the Lord pnt a balsam of bliss to your soul 
LaiW may ve wag about wi' the pleugh and the ea 
Wi' the sunshine o' hope ay surrounding thy heart. 



n 



THE MILLER O' PARTICK. 

Air—" The Maid o the Milir 

Where the Kelvin rows down, 

Frae the uplands aboon, 
To glide wi 1 the clyde to the sea ; 

Lives blythe Bob o 1 the mill, 

A young* miller o' skill, 
As ever stood at the mill e'e — 

He's a sprightly young swain 

As e'er tripp'd on the plain, 
With a bosom a 1 bleezin 1 wi 1 glee ; 

Where he toils 'mang the dust, 

He's aye true to his trust ; 
Young Bob is the laddie for me — 

Young Bob is the laddie, 

Young Bob is the laddie, 
Young Bob is the laddie for me ; 
Of all the young millers that grind on the stream, 

Blythe Bob o" the mill for me. 

Ilka girl in Partick, 

For him has a heart-ache, 
Bewitch 1 d by the blink o' his e'e ; 

Ilka brither in trade, 

Respects this young blade, 
So affable aye, and so free ; 

But his choice delight, 

Is to ramble at night, 
When the moon's in the karry fu r hie, 

Through a lone woody shade, 

With a lovely young maid, 
The sweets o 1 her mou 1 for to pree. 

Young Bob is the laddie, &c. 
2 



18 



The auld wives at their rokes 

A' gaffa at his jokes, 
He speaks them sae pawkie and slee— 

Wi' the bum o" the wheel, 

They a* sing- to his weel, 
And g-ies the young miller the gree. 

When he raises his hope, 

Wi 1 the cap and the stoup, 
Nae millers mair social than he ; 

Baith the merry and douse, 

Lo'es wi 1 Bob to carouse, 
O'er a drap o 1 the barley bree. 

Young Bob o* the mill, &c. 

The young bards now-a-days 
Are a 1 thrumming his praise, 

And handing him forward to fame ; 
While at feasts, fairs, and kirns, 
Auld wives and their bairns, 

Mak rafters to ring wi" his name ; 
And the lads at the pleuch, 
When they're lairM in a sheugh, 

Or to cheer their auld naigs up the hill, 
Tune their rustic young throats 
Wi' the words and the notes, 

To the praise o" young Bob o 1 the mill. 

Young Bob o 1 the mill, &c. 



JOHN THAMSONS BAIRNS. 

AlR—" Fye let us a* to the bridal." 

We're a' John Thamson's bairns, 
In unity let us agree ; 






19 



The fool that our failings discerns, 
Has failings as monie as we. 

There are some that will gie an advice. 

Pretending to feel for our woes ; 
But seek o' their kibbock a slice, 

And their friendship soon draws to a close. 
A fig for sic selfish orations, 

Sic vain affectation o' care ; 
True feeling for others 1 privations, 

In mankind are grown unco rare. 

Awa wi' sic flattering dissemblers ! 

Wha falsely keep truth in a mist ; 
Since the words o 1 the true hearted ramblers 

Are often mair worthy o' trust. 
Then round wi' the stoup and the cappy 

To those who the truth do impart ; 
May we never rin short o 1 a drappy, 

To syne foul deceit frae the heart. 

Some say it's a sin for to drink, 

But how can sic like be a faut, 
Since our rulers, to help us to drink, 

Hae lessen'd the tax upon maut. 
Out gutchers thought drinking nae sinnin 1 , — 

The wise, in the ages remote, 
When wearied wi' rinnin' and spinning 

Took a drappy to moisten their throat. 

This life is a wearym 1 widdle ; 

'Tween pats, pans, trantlooms, and stools ; 
Wark bodies are ne'er out the guddle, 

Frae their cradles till Jaid in the mools. 



20 



But men that were born wi' feelings, 
Wad need to bae plenty o* clink 5 

For insults are rife in the dwellings 
O' bodies wba're gien to the drink. 

We're a 1 puir fallows thegither — 

Just working frae hand to the mouth: 
'Tween ae wee faught and anither, 

We scarce hae't to slacken our drouth. 
Some steal through life just wi' jinkin", 

Whase dealings are no very straught ; 
Sae wi 1 working, and planning, and thinkin", 
WV11 get through it too wi* a taught. 
We're a" John Thamson's bairns, 

In unity let us agree ; 
The fool that our failings discerns, 
Has failings as monie as we. 



NATIONAL SONG. 

Air — " Gie my love brose" 

CHORUS. 

Hey for the kintry o' cakes, 

Hey for the heroes that's in o*t, 

Hey for its mountains and lakes, 

Its sweet barley broo and its bannocks. 

Auld Scotland tho' rugged thy land, 

A" torn wi' craigie and water ; 
*Twad seem that our daddies langsyne, 

Ne'er thought upon seeking a better. 
Content wi" their bannocks and brose, 

And proud o" their mountains o* heather, 
They rush'd like a flood on their foes, 

And vanquish'd their ilka invader. 



21 



Auld Scotland though hoary thy hills, 

Though dreary thy winters and lowering, 
Though icy boards cover thy rills, 

Nae land is to us sae endearing. 
The Southrons may brag o' their clime, 

Their wealth and their worldly splendour ; 
But nature, in works mair sublime, 

Surrounds us with loftier grandeur. 

We hae plenty o' fish in our lochs, 

We've fishers o' gude hardy breeding, 
We hae plenty o 1 sheep on our haughs, 

To serve us for meat and for cleading. 
We hae barley and aits baith in store, 

And aye when we chance to be drouthy, 
We hae baith yill and whisky galore, 

To render us canty and couthy. 

Gie a Scotchman a drink and a sang, 

He'll cheerily cock up his bonnet ; 
For his spirits flee up in a bang 

To the tune of an auld Scottish sonnet. 
Nae threats of his foernan he fears, 

Nae danger on land or on water ; 
For the storms that sound in his ears, 

But mak his great spirit the greater. 



SONG. 

Air — " Haud awafrae me, Donald, 

Row the boatie to the shore, 
Leave the stormy sea, Donald ; 

Loud the foaming billows roar, 
Aye dangerous for thee, Donald. 



22 



Row it up yon crystal flood, 

That fa's frae hills sae hie, Donald, 

Where the shade o' yonder wood, 

May waft the wind frae thee, Donald. 
Row the boatie, &c. 

The moon's gaun in yon sable cloud, 
That frowns on thee and me, Donald, 

The stars a wrapt in mirky shroud, 
Are hidden frae my e'e, Donald. 

Row the boatie, &c 

We'll seek the cot on yonder heath, 

Where peace and safety dwells, Donald, 

There rest secure frae Boreas' wrath, 
Amang our native hills, Donald. 

We'll beet our fire, and mend our net, 
Nor mourn that sic's our lot, Donald ; 

And when the wind shall cease to fret, 
Again we'll launch the boat, Donald. 
Row the boatie, &c 



THE WITCHES O* DUMBARTON. 

O why nae bardie blunts his quill, 
To 6ing Craigunoch's fragrant hill, 
Likewise Dumbuck where witches yell 

May gie him scope ; 
For there 'tis said did fairies dwell, 

In mony a group. 

This leads me on 'mang ither blithers, 
To tell a story o* my mither's, 



23 



And though I'm in a thousand swithere 
About the matter, 

It's maybe just as true as ithers 
O' sic a nature. 



But whether it was on hallowe'en 

The following- wondrous sight was seen, 

She coudna, 'twas sae lang since syne, 

Just be exact; 
But just she saw't wi' her twa een, 

And 'twas a fact. 

She said she saw, or thought she saw 
Auld Satan sitting on a sow 
Exactly 'neath the College bow ; 

While round its border 
Were hundreds o' his hellish crew 

In marching order. 

Their een were like red fiery rockets, 
A' bleezing in their sair-sunk sockets, 
Their bodies bare, baith breast and buttocks, 

For ower their hurdies 
They neither had wylie coats nor jackets 

To co'er their burdies. 

When round this bow the group advancing, 
L — d man sic walloping and prancing, 
Sic fiddle diddling and dancing, 

Wi' gestures queer ; 
With scores of brimstone torches glancing, 

Shin d far and near. 

But o' sae many odd-like beuks, 
Sae many wild unwarldly leuks 



24 






Inclosed wi' sic brisly puks 

O' sooty Jiair, 
Might driv'n a minister till his benks, 

Yea, even to prayer. 

Tho' here and there at different places 
The witches shew'd their earthly faces, 
Them tho 1 they tried to hide their b s 

Wi' tattery duds, 
Ye could hae seen in curious cases, 

Their bits o* f— ds. 

The fairies mair comely to be seen, 
Were clad in gowns o' gaudy green, 
Each trig and braw like a new preen, 

And a' sae nimbly, 
They needled grumphy's legs between, 

And march' d sae trimly. 

This grumphy had a lang lean shank, 

Nae signs o 1 fatness on his flank, 

But whether Scotch sow, Welsh, or mank. 

Or Irish boar ; 
It seem'd it neither had ate or drank, 

For months before. 

Even tho' a deil, how could he do't, 
Ride on a clung and hungry brute ; 
Nae wonder then it hung its head, 

And look'd sae sulky, 
When scrimpH o' food, and stress'd to bute, 

Wi' ane sae bulky. 

Tap o* the arch, aboon them a' 
There sat a curr as black's a craw, 



25 



With ugsome looks and mouth a thraw, 
It rais'd a clamour — 

Then on droll instrument did blaw 
Some hellish yaumer. 

But that droll daugeon ca'd the deil, 
Must be a base ill-willie chiel, 
Or else what pleasure could he feel 

In sic like sporting; 
Fearing foke that's meaning weel 

In social courting. 

When pair and pair ahint the dyke, 
Are tasting that baith sexes like, 
Think ye the auld uncouthie byke 

Wad wish them parted ; 
Or does he gang to help the tyke 

That's maist faintheated. 

Ye'd think the rover would require, 
E'en seeing he's scanty o' attire, 
To bide mair near his muckle fire 

For sake o' heat ; 
And no gang lounging ilka where, 

To lie and cheat. 

I'd hae him haunt some hallow dell, 
That's mair convenient to himsel, 
Where he mair privately might drill 

His coomy legions, 
And no come just sae far a-field 

As our cauld regions. 

Now least ye tak it an oppression, 
The reading o' my dire degression, 



26 

I'll lea't to men wha by profession 

Misca' Auld Nick — 
Least I be ta'en before the session 

For doing sic. 

But losh I'm snre when auld fo'k kent it, 

Sic places were wi' sic frequented, 

They might hae warn'd their youths anent it, 

Aye to beware, 
No haeing them coming hame demented 

Frae sic a scar. 

But let's be thankfu 1 for our mercies, 
That now sic banditti sae scarce is, 
Langsyne we durstna turn our a — es 

Upon the light, 
But deils, in acting o' their farces, 

Gaed us a fright. 

Now let me gie twa words o* prayer ; 
O L — d of waters, earth, and air, 
Keep rough spun rhymsters in thy care, 

U s fawty men ; 
At present and for evermair, 

Amen, amen. 



RORIE MURPHY. 

Saw ye Rorie Murphy, 
Roderick Murphy, Rorie Murphy ; 
Saw ye Rorie Murphy 
Coming through Dumbarton. 

This Rorie was a piper gude, 
As ever cam o 1 Highland brood, 



27 



And Lowland bodies' hearts aye glow'd 
To the notes o* Rorie Murphy. 
He had a beard of amber gloss, 
Twa sparklin' e'en as black as sloes, 
Twa cheeks the colour o 1 the rose, 
And nose as red's a partan. 

Tho' Rorie's pipes were rude and rough, 
The drones were dainty, auld, and teugh, 
And like to Boreas was their sough, 
When blawn by Rorie Murphy. 
O'er his curl'd locks o' brown, 
A creeshy bonnet co'erd his crown, 
I wat he was a tousie loun, 
Coming through Dumbarton. 

When lords or lairds wad wedded be, 
Or kintry kirns needed glee, 
They didna grudge the minstrel's fee 
When they got Rorie Murphy. 
When Rorie cracket, snuff' d, and drank 
Wi* cronies, round he ay was frank, 
And mony a tune he play'd for thank, 
Coming through Dumbarton. 



His snuff mill was the horn o' ram, 

His staff the bulky bught o' broom, 

His hose that ne'er saw pheater's loom, 

He wrought himsel for certain. 

To scar the louns wad tak his pence 

He had a dirk for his defence, 

That hang a' road frae boon his haunch, 

Till doun amang his gartan. 



28 



This Rorie had a lowan drouth, 
He lo'ed a drappy till his mouth ; 
Dumbarton change-fok ken its truth 
I say o' Rorie Murphy. 
And Rorie had a ready tale 
To gie the wives that sell gude ale, 
He charm'd the swats frae coke and pail 
Coming through Dumbarton. 

When Rorie drank an extra gill, 
He made his chaunter sound sae skill, 
Ye'd heard it on Benlomond hill, 
As weel as in Dumbarton. 
He cheer'd the heart o' sagest sire, 
He fiU'd the warrior's breast wi* fire, 
And made the listening groups admire, 
Coming through Dumbarton. 



SONG. 

Air — " The Last Rose o" 1 Summer."' 

See the lovely moon, Mary, shines clear from above, 
With a bonny blue karry o"er mountain and grove, 
Let us stray by the Leven, the purest of streams, 
W hile the empress of even 1 display her bright beams 

c 

^ee the lovely Lochlomond is a' siller'd o'er — 

ee it shines like a mirror from thy lonely bower ; 
Not a breeze raves to ruffle its smooth glassy deep, 
For the rude winds are hush, and the soft zephyrs 
sleep. 

Now there's nae danger, Mary, for wooers to roam, 
Nae sound of the warpipe by hamlet or howm, 



29 



jtfae sound but the murmur o' lone mountain rill, 
knd the sweet humming echoes that sing in the dell. 



THE REFLECTIONS OF TANNAHILL. 

1 lean'd by the side of a lone mountain's rill, 
Where a 1 but its murmurs was solemnly still — 
[ gaz'd on the sky and the summer's gay scene, 
jAnd saving my mind ilka thing was serene. 
I strove as 1 lay on the daisy clad sod, 
[To shake m) mind free o" 1 that cumberous load ; 
For nae joy could I find midst the scenery so sweet, 
From the bonny blue vault, or the flowers at my feet. 

I had strove lang to lean to the virtuous side, 

Made innocent honesty ever my guide, 

Had I not just by random whyles swerv'd frae sic 

laws, 
I could say nothing else of my grief was the cause. 
But in midst o 1 my mazes reflection unkind, 
Shew'd the form of a faithless young fair in my mind, 
Wha in spite of the beauties around me I saw, 
Made the heart-heaving sigh frae my bosom to draw. 

For I saw in her face ance sae cheering to see, 
The look o' lost love now directed to me ; 
Then the blood in my bosom began to grow cauld, 
As my prospects grew dim that sae bright were of 

auld. 
Then I felt what I wished that nae mortal might feel, 
O regret that my heart had sae lang been sae leal — 
A heart ever social, and hallow'd in mirth, 
To be ruffled and rent by the false of the earth. 



30 

I feel for the heart that is drooping* in sorrow, 
Joyless at night, and no hope for to-morrow ; 
I feel for the heart that no comfort can borrow, 
But for those who wad strive human feelings to har- 
row. 



THE RADICAL WAR. 

Air — "Sleeping Maggie" 

Winds roar'd, and rain had swell'd the streams, 
And Maggy thought she heard a drumming ; 

Then wak'ning from a fearfu' dream, 
Cry'd, John, the Radicals are coming. 

O are ye sleeping, J ohnnie ? 
O are ye sleeping, Johnnie ? 
Rise and rin to save your skin ; 
The Radicals are coming on ye. 

Auld baudrons thrumming on the bink, 
Accorded wi' the bark o 1 colley ; 

The fire at times wi' glimmering blink, 
Shew'd Maggy's face o 1 melancholy. 

Against the door fell the peat stack, 

For winds grew stronger aye and louder ; 

Meg thinking a 1 was gaun to wrack, 
Kept driving aye at Johnnie's shoutber. 



Yestreen they flocked up the glen, 

Wi 1 pouls and pikes on ilka shouther ; 

Deil brings the loons to the Bard rain ! 
To drive a woman body throuther. 



31 



For ilka rusty sword and gun, 

And ilka heuk, and auld pleugh pettle, 

They've gather'd up the country round ; 
And are weel design'd to try their mettle. 

Our laird gaed east, and had a crack 

Wi' some wise weavers, ower a chappin; 

Cam stapping in as he cam back, 

And tauld us plainly what wad happen. 

He swore by a 1 the heavens aboon, 
As fervent's ane in firm devotion, 

That two-three days will sure bring round 
A state o 1 warfare and commotion. 



Our laird's a gay lang-headed loon, 
He's far far seen in courtly matters ; 

There's no a time he's in the town, 

But what he reads the Lunnon Papers. 

Us women bodies we hae cares, 

That men bodies hae little thought o'; 

Folk should be tenty aye o' snares, 

Aye wary what they may be brought to. 

I get nae sleep, wi' dreams that's odd, 
They'll something follow that's uncanny ; 

We'll to the Highlands tak the road, 
And see our second cousin Danie. 



Ye own'd yoursel, last Sunday te'en, 
The lift was fu' o' signs and wonders ; 



32 



Ye saw a a kirk turn'd upside down, 
And a muckle ship gaun a' to flinders. 

We'll sell auld grumphy and her pig, 

And a' the gear we canna carry ; 
We'll dauner round by Glasco' brig, 

To save the expenses o' the ferry. 

The muckle beuk shall be my load, 
That grac'd this ruin'd house for ages ; 

Wee Bawsy will before us nod, 

And feed on pooks about the hedges. 

It's said our nation canna stand, 

Because o' sins and sinners mony ; 
Gif men be sent to scourge the land, 

O gin they'd spare but me and J ohnnie. 

I hear, by colley's waywart growl, 

That black destruction's gath'ring round us ; 
O ! what was yon ? some waefu' howl — 

Lord ! they're no a cat-loup frae our winnocks. 

Betimes appear* d the morning light, 

Betimes auld J ohnnie ceas'd his snoring, 

And fand the cause o* Maggy's fright 
Was but the wind and water roaring. 



Crying, O but ye're fashious, Maggy ; 
Vow but ye're fashious, Maggy ; 
It's but the flooded burnie's din 
Loud roaring ower the upland craigie. 



49 



ODE TO ALEXANDER WILSON. 

The following rustic verses to the memory of Alexander Wilson, is hum- 
My inscribed to Mr. T C— ht— n, an intimate acquaintance of our ce- 
lebrated author. 

Philosophy, painting, and-song, 

Alternately gain'd his affection. 

Awake, my muse, thy sweetest lay. 
To hail the memorable day — 
The day which adds to Scottish worth — 
The day which gave our genius birth j- 
A genius who with tuneful choir, 
Often rapturous touch'd the lyre. 
Mark our poet's choicest themes 
Born in fancy's brightest dreams ; 
Mark how smooth his numbers roll, 
Charm the ear, and cheer the soul ; 
Loudly let each bard exclaim, 
Praise his worth, revere his name. 
Ye heavenly nine my muse inspire, 
To sing with poesy and fire, 
The song that's ever dear to me, 
A song to Wilson's memory. 

Come every bard, come every swain — 
Apollo come, with all thy train ; 
Come and join in joyfu' strain, 
Let joined mirth and humour reign, 
Weave the cheerful roundelay, 
Rouse the choir of melody ; 
Join the song, the chorus swell, 
Loud of genuine merits tell. 
Ye minstrel chiels assemble a', 
Tune your reeds, your whistles blaw ; 
Bring our ancient pipe and drone, 
Bring the lute of mellow tone, 
4 



50 



Bring the harp — the clarion bring 1 , 
Sound them till sweet echoes ring. 
Pass the night in harmony, 
Dear to Wilson's memory. 

Wha could match his lovely strain, 
Cope wi' his descriptive pen. 
Paint the meadows, busk the glen, 
Deck the woodland, boag, or fen ; 
Oft the lonely tower he'd take, 
Climb the mountain, skim the lake ; 
Wander round its pebbled shore, 
Seek the plantin's inmost bower, 
Fondly search the hallow shade, 
By the rill's uneven bed ; 
'Neath the grey, the silvey boughs, 
By the brier, the broomy knowes, 
A' to cherish, a' to rouse 
New reflections to his muse. 
Seated on the burnie's brink, 
He wove his rhymes in sweetest link ; 
Oft he'd lean beneath the oak, 
Then ascend the clifty rock, 
Rest upon the mountain's brow, 
Charnvd to view the vales below ; 
Then ponder'd on an antique bower, 
Or mus'd beside a ruin'd tower. 

Wha could reach his flights sae gay, 
Tune his reed, or sound his lay, 
J oin his powers in unity, 
Sing to Wilson's memory. 

Sequestered in his humble cot, 
With fortune frowning on his lot, 



51 



He sought for comfort in his rhyme, 
And sung of nature's works sublime; 
For when his muse was on the wing-, 
Aye sweetly sung his lyric string. 
Tho' winter blew with angry blast, 
Tho 1 sleety showers were driving fast ; 
Nor did he frown at winter's storm, 
To him each season had its charm. 
But sad reflections bring the tear, 
Recalling woes that poortith bear ; 
Fate made him rove through life's career, 
Midst painfu' tasks, and prospects drear, 
Far lone to plode his weary way 
In the inclement wintry day — 
Then has he traced the rocky shore, 
And heard the seas incessant roar. 

Where winds o'er restless waters rave, 
Where shattered clifts rock wi' the waves, 
Tho 1 the dark clouds hung o'er the deep, 
There tho' the storms frown'd on the steep, 
Beauties he saw in cloudy skies, 
Unseen, unknown by other eyes. 

Soon as the spring smiled in the grove, 
And warbler's sang their notes of love — 
When woods their leafy robes resum'd, 
The harbingers of summer's bloom — 
Then would he leave the busy town, 
Far from the vain, the bigot's frown. 

Oft 'neath the cheerful smiles of May, 
He left his couch at dawn of day — 
Straight to a neighbouring height he'd stray, 



52 



To catch the first celestial ray, 
That wak'ned nature from repose, 
And cheer'd again his breast of w 

He watch'd the sun*s unwearied flight, 

And often at the silent night, 

When Cynthia, that fair queen of light, 

Had tinged o'er with silvery beams 

The mountain tops, the woods and streams ; 

Then with devotion in his eye, 

He'd gaze upon the starry sky, 

Then with a philanthropic breast, 

He mourn' d each human soul opprest. 

'Twas him that felt for others' woe, 
And bade the tear of pity flow — 
He spurn'd the calous-hearted villain, 
And satirized his whinstone feeling. 

So let us pass this night with glee, 
Rejoicing in his memory. 

Exploring animated nature, 
He kent the wyles o' ilka creature — 
Tho' more the beauteous feather" d kind 
Seem'd to attract his heavenward mind. 
Sae first he truly understood, 
His native Scotia's pinion" d brood, 
Down from the eagle to the wren, 
And tauld their language in the glen ; 
He kent the joy-exalting throat, 
Ay frae the waefa' chirping note — 
He sang their joys, and mourn'd their q 
By thyming rocks, and breakau braes. 



53 



Green be the woodlands, flowery the sward, 
The youthfu' haunts of Scotia's bard. 



When fate had forced him from his home, 
No more his native fields to roam, 
Far o'er the wide Atlantic's roar, 
He sought Columbia's peaceful shore ; 
There with a penetrating eye, 
He rang'd the vale and mountain high — 
Intent on knowledge, bent for to explore, 
He rang'd the dark, the gloomy forest o'er, 
Travers'd the swamp, the wild, the trackless way 
Where nature solas bears imperial sway. 



He tuned his mother's reed again, 
And sung the beauty of the scene ; 
Then turning to his chief delight, 
The lovely animals of flight ; 
He op'd in nature's book a page, 
Unknown to an enlightened age. 



Land of the brave, where Wallace trode, 
Thy son's arise, and join my ode, 
And 'mongst the annals of your fame, 
Enroll our genuine poet's name. 
Columbia raise thy trump of fame, 
Loud to the praise of Wilson's name ; 
In every word, in every tone, 
Let Wilson ring, and Washington — 
Whose fame shall sound around thy shore, 
Till days shall cease, till night's no more. 



54 



THE CANTY CARLE. 

Air — " Cameron's gotten his wife again" 

The canty carle o'er the clachan, 

The canty carle o'er the clachan, 

His heart's aye light, his face aye laughin', 

The canty carle o'er the clachan. 

It's no a shallowness o' brain, 

That maks him frisky, blythe, and fain ; 

It's no the want o' literature ; 

But just a giftie gien by Nature. 

Tho' Death has left him lane and single, 

He talks fu' cheery by the ingle ; 

Gets comfort frae his pipe and spleuchan, — 

The canty carle o'er the clachan. 

The wee things a' come todlin round him, 
The very dogs a' fawn upon him ; 
Nor grows he camsheugh at the creatures, 
But sympathizes wi" their natures. 
He has nae fretfu' turn o' mind, 
But ever couthy, blythe, and kind ; 
Contented wi' his cog o' brochan, — 
The canty carle o'er the clachan. 

Nae drinker but in moderation, — 

He taks a drap for recreation ; — 

Nor will he fash himself debating ; 

But lo'es a sober social meeting. 

He harms nane — he fears nae ill — 

Thinks mankind a' as gude's himsel ; 

Nor does he spurn the young anes' damn', — 

The canty carle o'er the clachan. 



55 



The canty carle o'er the clachan, 

The canty carle o'er the clachan ; 

His heart's aye light, his face aye laughing 

The canty carle o'er the clachan. 



THOUGHTS ON NATURE. 

Nature, thou ever glorious theme, 

I see thy god in every flower, 
I see incomprehensive scheme, 

Arising from infinite power. 
All hail, thou ever glorious sun, 

How sweet thy smile at dawn of day- 
How luminous thy disk at noon, 

How lovely thy parting ray. 

I love the morn, when all is hush, 

Save waterfall and larks sweet lay — 
I love the evening, when the thrusi, 

Sings farewell to thy parting ray. 
O I I love spring that modest maid, 

And summer, Nature's darling child, 
Autumn I love tho' flowerets fade, 

And winter midst its raging wild. 

Let summer smile, or winter scowl, 

In all their varied shades appear, 
Something to charm the thinking soul, 

And bring demotion's hallowed tear. 
Imagination, po wer divine, 

Source of my pleasure and my pain, 
My love for thee I'll ne'er resign, 

While blood runs warmest in mv veins. 



66 



I love the river, lake, and sea, 

The earth and atmosphere above, 
I love the moon, and starry sky, 

Yea more than what I see, I love. 
I love the dark, I love the light, 

I love that thing calTd life or soul ; 
I love not thee my thrawart fate, 

But I love God that made the whole. 



SANDY M'NAB. 
A Gcelic Air. 

The Highlands were pested wi* Sandy M'Nab, 
The Lowlands molested wi* Sandy M'Nab ; 
The auld folk did sigh, and the young ones did sab, 
Ay after a visit frae Sandy M'Nab. 

Sandy M'Nab was a Highlandman born, 
And was known in the Lowlands by Sandy o" Lorn : 
But Sandy, like many anither brave Scot, 
Was born, puir chiel, wi" a crook in his lot. 
Nae learning had he for to read or to spell, 
Kent nae ither feeling but hunger and caul ; 
Yet Sandy, tho* dultish, had that meikle sense 
To be greedy o"' gear, and be carefu 1 o" pence. 

The Highlands, &c. 

But tho" Sandy was dultish, and lazy at wark, 

Yet Sandy was eident eneugh in the dark ; 

He cunningly kent a' the places to lurk, 

Till sure o 1 reward frae the use of his durk. 

Fo'ks cattle gaed missing, fo'ks stooks they were stoun. 

And braw things were missing by belles o' the town : 



57 



Thus Sandy M'Nab was aye wyted wi" a", 
And precaution ay used when the gear was awa. 

The Highlands, &c. 



An*st Sandy's auld father o' siller was scant, 
He bit sell a young- stirk for to mak up his rent ; 
Sae Sandy was sent wi' the beast to the fair, 
But sic an odd dealer had seldom been there. 
He got the beast sauld, but he couldna endure, 
To let her remain in anither man's power ; 
So he patiently waited until it was mirk, 
Then gaed heartily hame wi' baith siller and stirk. 

The Highlands, &c. 

A grave Lowland priest and right glib o' the tongue, 
Gaed to point out to Sandy the right and the wrong ; 
The priest promis'd comfort, said Sandy, that's gude, 
Nae doubt ye'll hae brought us baith siller and food. 
The priest then did pray as becoming his place, 
And petition'd the power for to send them more grace ; 
But Sandy drew till him a crockfu' a creesh, 
Saying, O send us siller, we've plenty o' greeze. 

The Highlands, &c. 

Sandy's mother had boiled a big fish in a pan, 
There's the one half to you, said she, Sandy, my man ; 
But for fear you'll be dry, let the tither half stand, 
Till your father come hame, said she, Sandy my man. 
But Sandy did think there wad be little skaith, 
As his mother was out, tho' he swallow'd them baith ; 
For he ate the first half o't for fear he'd be dry. 
Then thought that the second might hunger defy. 

The Highlands, &c. 



58 



This Sandy M'Nab was baith meikle and strong, 
And rude as the mountains he roved among ; 
He courted nae friendship wi' high or wi' low, 
Nor would he e'er turn his back till a foe. 
When winter did lower o'er the hills of his home, 
And Boreas did raise the wide ocean in foam, 
With courage undaunted and heart ever hale, 
He'd croon o'er a cronach in 'midst o 1 the gale. 

When Sandy was placed in the midst of a crowd, 
Tho' his aspect was damped his heart still was proud ; 
And when fir'd wi' the strength of his auld mither 

earth, 
Then romantic his mind like the hills of his birth. 
But Sandy M'Nab by some unlucky dint, 
Was nae waur o' a trap till his feet they fell in't; 
For he died wi' a tether tied under his gab, 
This ended the lifetime o' Sandy M'Nab. 



SONG IN THE OLD BALLAD STYLE. 

'Tis e'ening — the sun has gane down frae my e'e 

A' nature is pensive and still, 
Save echoes that ring to the murmuring stream, 

As it rows down the howe o' the hill. 



And Gloamin', attired in a mantle o* grey, 

Looks sad at the close o' the day ; 
While the dews that distil through the dusk o' the sky; 

Like tears, seem confirming the wae. 

Now ilka sweet warbler's retird to its rest, 
The joys o' the clay being o*er ; 



59 

j But the presence o, Mary gi'es pleasure to me, 
In the darkest o' nights that can lour. 

My Mary's a flower o 1 the loveliest hue, 

She's charming in ilka degree ; 
For she has a wyle in her artless smile, 

The sweetest auld Nature could gie. 

Now rise frae thy bed, thou bonny mild moon ! 

Thou's surely fa'en drowsy a wee ; 
O throw down a gliff o' thy lily-white gleam, 

To cheer my dear lassie and me. 

The moon gi'ed a blink through the hole o' a cloud, 

As she soar'd in the karry sae hie ; 
And blythe was her. laugh upon yon burn side, 

As the smile in my Mary's ee. 



PATE BIRNIE. 

Our minstrels a' frae south to north, 

To Edin cam to try their worth, 

And ane cam from the banks o' Forth, 

Wha's name was Patie Birnie. 

This Patie wi' superior art, 

Made notes to ring thro' head and heart, 

Till citizens a' set apart 

Their praise to Patie Birnie. 

Tell auld Kinghorn, o* picish birth, 
Where noddin she looks o'er the Firth, 
Aye when she would inhance her worth, 
To sing o' Patie Birnie. 



<60 



His merits mak auld Reekie ring, 
Make rustic poets o' him sing- — 
For nane can touch the fiddle string, 
Sae weel as Patie Birnie. 
He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, 
Maks youngsters a 1 rin loupin mad, 
Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, 
Inchanted wi* Pate Birnie. 

The witching tones o* Patie" s therm, 
Maks farmer chiels forget their farm, 
Sailors forget the howling storm, 
When dancing to Pate Birnie. 
Pate maks the fool forget his freaks, 
Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes, 
And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks, 
And follow Patie Birnie. 

When Patie taks his strolling rounds, 
To feasts or fairs in ither towns, 
Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun, 
To hear the famous Birnie. 
The crabit carles forget to snarl, 
The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel, 
And gilphies forget the stock and horle, 
And dance to Patie Birnie. 

Tell auld Kinghorn, &c. 

SONG. 

Near the cot on yonder brae, 
Lads and lasses busked gay, 
Sing and dance their time away, 
To hail the happy morn o' May. 

Now the chorus o" the sang, 
Skim Lochlomond waves ah 



61 



And the pibroch's peacefir twang- 
Sound the Balloch braes amang. 

Long- may peace in Scotia reign, 
Long" may foreign threats be vain, 
Long be sorrow, sighs, and pain 
Distant from her mountain's swain. 

Seated round their sovereign cheer, 
Of usquebaugh and reaming bear, 
Minstrels blaw their chaunters clear, 
Dearest aye to Norland ear. 

On the green and roun 1 the ring, 
Donald skips the Highland fling, 
And between the cheery springs 
Each his fav'rite ditty sings. 

When the heath unfolds its bloom — 
When the gowd leaf busks the broom, 
Again we'll meet upon the knowe, 
Loves and joys to renew. 

Long may peace in Scotia reign, 
Long may foreign threats be vain, 
Long be sorrow, sighs, and pain, 
Distant from her mountain swain. 



SONG. 

Air — " Auld Lang syne. 
Come a' ye bards frae Johnny Groati 

To Scotland's southmost line, 
And sing of laurels won by Scots, 

In the days o' langsyne. 



62 



CHORUS. 

And let us aye these days revere, 
With songs and sonnets fine ; 

When Scotland's kings sat doun wi' cheer, 
On gude kail brose to dine. 

Tho' foreign tyrants sought our land, 

Wi 1 mony a sair campaign, 
They ne'er could brave our warlike bands, 

In the days o' langsyne. 

With Wallace's deeds auld Scotland rings, 

Her outmost coast and line, 
And raptured wi" his fame, she sings 

O* the days o' langsyne. 

And Bannockburn ay held sae dear 

To every Scottish mind, 
Will mak us lang to sing wi* cheer 

O' the days o' langsyne. 

Let nature tell the passive slave, 

It ne'er was her design, 
Oppressive rulers e'er should brave 

The rest of human kind. 

Let Scotia's hardy sons and true, 

In unity ay join — 
And let nae loun the laurel pu', 

That round our thistle twine. 

Scotia, if ane be in thy land, 
Disown him to be thine, 



63 



That wadna against thraldom stand, 
As our daddies did langsyne. 

And let the minstrel, &c. 



SONG. 

Air. — " The Lass o 1 Ballochnile" 
Now Summer days begin to smile, 

The wintry winds hae ceas'd to rave, 
And fancy leads my thoughts the while, 

Far o'er Lochlomond's siller wave. 
There heathbells deck Benlomond's brow, 

And warblers chant in every shade, 
When Leven stream o' clearest hue, 

Runs rowing o'er its pebbly bed. 

There nature charms the wandering eye, 

With mountain lake and woodland shade ; 
O hallow'd be the spot where I 

First woo'd Lochlomond's lovely maid. 
Saft frae yon grott I heard her song, 

Upon the wandering echoes shake ; 
The zephyrs bore her notes along, 

Far o'er the isle bespotted lake. 

With sparkling eyes she mark'd the boat, 

That bore me o'er the crystal tide ; 
And I with rapture hail'd the cot, 

Where dwelt my love on Leven side. 
'Twas she that made the landscape dear, 

'Twas she enliven 1 d every shade ; 
To me the gayest scenes were drear, 

If wanting Leven's lovely maid. 



64 
THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER. 

Ah ! Selima, cruel you prove, 
Yet sure my hard lot you'll bewail. 

Thy cheeks Eliza's like the rose, 

Thy brow Eliza's like the snaw ; 
But soon thy frowns to him wha woos, 

Will break his youthfu' heart in twa~ 
Why heaves that sigh in Jeanie's breast i 

Why stands the tear in J eanie's e : e ? 
What makes the laddie sae opprest ? 

Dear lassie, 'tis his love for thee. 



Thy smiles may prove thy future bliss. 

Thy frowns may prove thy future pain ; 
Fair lassie answer me in this ; 

O turn to love thy taunting strain. 
Thy beauty, like the rose, will fade ; 

Then cease, O cease, e'er to be vain ; 
The lassie turn'd her tentless head, 

And jeering left her love again. 



Young Jamie mark'd her scornfu' 

And pensive sought the hazel glen, 
He heav'd his last lovelorn sigh, 

Then plung'd into the foaming linn. 
The angler found him by the oak, 

W here waters sunk beneath the brae 
The lassie's heart smit like the rock, 

In tears melt o'er his lifeless clay. 



TIBBIES MOLIGRANT; 

OR, SATIRE A-LA-MODE. 

What waefu' news are these I hear, 
They ring through a' my nodle, 

They say our lives before a year, 
Will no be worth a bodle. 

I doubt the diel's won loose again, 
And thrown aside his fetters, 

And back to Scotland wi' his train, 

• To war against his betters. 

And sing O waes me. 

There's meikle dool now in our land, 

There's meikle tribulation, 
Our righteous hearts can ill withstand, 

That word ca'd mancipation. 
Langsyne our ministers cry'd down, 

Black Popery's delusion ; 
But now ye'd think the man o' sin 

And them were in collision. 

And sing O waes me. 

Ye'll see they'll break our faith and hope, 

As sure's my name is Tibbie. 
They've granted freedom to the pope, 

To ride upon his hobby. 
And soon o'er a' our land he'll range 

Wi' direfu 1 declarations ; 
Work in our kirk a ruefu* change, 

Through transubstantiations. 

And sing o' waes me. 

There's ane O'Connell our greatest foe, 
Wha rages sae and rants — 



50 



He's just a limb o' Satan rais'd 

To try the faith o' sants. 
Nae doubt he'll lead him on a whyle, 

Just as he did the witches, 
Then burn the tyke for a' his toil, 

'Mang ither brimstone wretches. 

And sing- &c. 



O'Connell says their way was first, 

And it shall be the last ; 
But be they last or be they first, 

I'm sure our way's the best. 
He says we've customs like their ain, 

In what they ca* confession ; 
We own our fauts, and's washed clean, 

By sumphs we ca' a session. 

And sing, &c. 



He says that we hae Papish tricks, 

And Protestant a' throuther ; 
But daughters are excus'd for freaks 

They borrow frae their mother. 
He says we haul that Popish creeds 

Brought Scotland meikle woe — 
But bids us mark our wicked deeds, 

The massacre o' Glencoe. 

And sing, &c. 



This generation's fu o" ills, 
The mair to be lamented ; 

Our very ministers hae themselves 
Black sins they ne'er repented. 



51 



But a 1 the warlcTs gaun to wreck, 

At liame as weel's abroad ; 
For rebels in ilk land are thick, 

As Eemocks in a clod. 

And sing, &c. 

But gude be prais'd ! there's some, we ken, 

O* temperance, lear, and logic, 
To cheat the de'il o' souls o' men, 

Hae found anither project. 
For if we dinna join belyve, 

Their Temperate Society, 
They're gaun to hae us brunt alive 

For the sins o' inebriety. 

And sing, &c. 

Now if I chance to tak a nap, 

My brain's sae fu' o' visions, 
That our young Tarn aye frowns at that, 

And dings me wi' derisions. 
I dream'd a dream — O vow 'twas queer ! 

A heap o' folk thegither 
Wi' a bable babing in the air, 

Like ae stirk cross anither. 

And sing, &c. 

Quoth Willie Watt our loopy laird, 

I'll pledge my fattest wedder, 
Yon bonny sticks will grow to swords, 

And slay us a' thegither. 
Quo I, think ye, they'll be sic wreck, 

And ruin in our land ; 
Do they no ken by doing sic, 

They'll break the'sixth command. 



52 



But Willie Watt's a man o' grace, 

Tho' sinners ca' him glundy ; 
He frowns at sin, he reads and prays, 

And gangs "t the kirk on Sunday. 
He kens the drift of a' our faes, 

By reading o' his beuk ; 
But siller likes, and that he'll hae 

By either heuk or cruck. 

And sing, &e. 

Our Donald dreanrd twa meikle bulls, 

Ane Papist and ane corn, 
Were trying on their neebours sculls, 

The hardness o' their horn. 
They yok'd on bodies like oursels, 

Wha baud them maist in scorn ; 
And reft the land o' living souls, 

Till the king was maist forlorn. 

And sing, &c. 

But bodies maun hae carnal dreams, 

As weel's about religion — 
I've been through fancy's fairy beams, 

Sae tain's I hae been fidgin 1 . 
Yestreen I dream'd that I was rich — 

With wealth my boards adorning — 
Then rising gie'd my haunch a hitch 

To crowdle in the morning. 

And sing, &c 

There's merv'lous things seen in the mirk; 

For twa o" God's poor weavers 
Did dream the Pope had ta'en the kirk 

Frae Protestant believers. 



53 



Then wakiiing, like to bite their thumbs 

Through horror and vexation, 
They learn'd the feck o' human dreams, 

Were hardly worth relation. 

And sing, &c. 

Our betherars wife maun hae her dreams, 

As weel as other people ; 
She dream'd some rogues wf battering rams, 

Were driving doun the steeple. 
She row'd and wrestled in her sleep, 

A' to prevent the evil ; 
But wak'ning, fand it was a dream, 

That nane were sae uncivil. 

And sing, &c. 



SONG. 

Air — Maggy Lauder. 

O wha wad leave this lonely isle, 

The hame o' Maggy Lauder ; 
Or wha wad be a lone exile, 

For wealth or riches either. 
Let poortith gloom or affluence smile, 

From this I'll ne'er gang thither ; 
But live and die in Scotland isle, 

The hame o 1 Maggy Lauder. 

How dear to me this rural scene, 

The burnie and the bogie, 
The lftmlock ho we, the hazel glen, 

And humble bower o' Maggy. 



54 



Of a' the earth for warlike worth, 

Gie me that land o' heather, 
'Tween Johnny Groats and Solway Firth, 

The hame o' Maggy Lauder. 

For Maggy's name's a land o' fame, 

Lang kent for deeds of glory ; 
A Wallace and a Bruce' s name, 

Will long resound in story. 
Proud of the land that gie'd me birth, 

Auld Scotland my mither ; 
I'll aye exalt that isle o' earth, 

The hame o' Maggy Lauder. 

Now Maggy's een's the bonny blue, 

Her cheek's the rosy blossom, 
Her hair fa's from her milk-white brow, 

Like amber on her bosom. 
Between her beauty, word, and wyle, 

I'm tied as wi' a tether ; 
Nor can I leave this lovely isle, 

The hame o' Maggy Lauder. 



EPISTLE TO CH— FL— NG. 

Strange to the world he wore a bashful look. 

The fields his study, nature was his book. — Bloomjieid. 

Tune up, my muse, thy rude auld chanter, 
Nor stoop to grieve at Fate's mishanter, 
Wake from thy sleep, nor sing nor saunter, 

Wi' waefu' chimes^ 
But try the kind o" troting canter, 

O' rattlin* rhymes. 



DO 



Awake and dinna be sae dort, 
What tho* ye get nae siller fort, 
Keep mind ye'er o' the minor sort, 

Ye're no like southey — 
Ye're fit for nought but makin' sport, 

To chert's that's drouthy. 

But tak ye that as nae affront, 
Nor be ye either bleer'd nor blunt, 
'Tho ye should ne'er appear in print, 

For lack of art ; 
Ye aiblins whyles by lucky dint, 

May touch the heart. 

Now faith she's up — she's at it fairly, 
Since I've taen up the pen sincerely, 
'Mang ither things to ask ye, Charlie, 

This very hour, 
Why now-a-days ye haunt sae rarely, 

My humble bower. 

Say, Charlie, is your muse asleep, 
Or doth she gang on stilt or creep, 
Or dare she no in public peep, 

For fear o' critics ; 
Or is she deav'd frae week to week, 

Wi' damn"d politics. 

Fye rouse her up, she slumber'd lang, 
At least I hae'na heard her twang, 
Let's hear some comic tale or sang, 

That's pert and witty, 
Ye hear how mine's stirs in a bang 

Up to her duty. 



56 



Yea, even I, thy hardship's brither, 
Tho' seldom is't that we forgather, 
I like thy tale, "tho lang's a tether, 

Sae free o' guile — 
As thou lay'st aff without a swither, 

Grac'd wi' thy smile. 

Say, are ye gien to melancholy, 
And shuns the vainer scenes of folly ? 
Mean ye to be secluded wholly 

Frae human ills, 
Or are ye gien to walking solely, 

O'er heathy hills ? 

Keep melancholy out the leet — 
Tho"' I be partly burthen" d wi't ; 
I own that solitude is sweet, 

For by mysel", 
I love to brush the dewy weet 

Frae heather bell. 

"Tis sweet to rove by hill and glade 
When in their summer robes array'd, 
And listen by the burnie's bed, 

Its singing din, 
While garglin 'neath a leavy shade. 

O'er craig and linn. 

Oft frae the flaunting town I've trod, 
To look through nature up to God ; 
Where heath and snow-white doowans nod 

Abone the plain — 
Then felt an awe o* something odd, 

Bevont niv ken. 



Charley ! when ye climb the hill, 
At morning dawn when a' is still, 
Ye'll feel your heart within ye thrill 

Wi' purest joy — 
How pleasing then to weild the quill 
Without annoy. 

I've felt some soothing sweet sensation, 
When gazing frae an elevation, 
On a' the beauties of creation 

My view could gie ; 
And known the tear of admiration 

Bedim mine e'e. I 

Nor marvel ye through some strange cause, 
That's interwove wi' nature's laws, 
That I'm at present forc'd to pause 

To dicht the tear ; 
That frae my thoughtfu' nodle fa's 

Sae ambient clear. 

Nor can I tell from whence it flows — 

I've neither real friends nor foes ; 

But that my bosom's fraught with woes, 

I must confess — 
And aye has something to disclose, 

111 to express. 

Yet whyles to hugg a flattering hope, 
And gie impatient fancy scope, 

1 love to mix a social groupe 

O' canty billies, 
Wha tell their tale round cap and stoup, 
Wi' hearts that's guileless, 



58 



But Charlie, when ye feel in tift, 
Let's hear o 1 your Poetic gift, 
Just gie a glint athwart the lift, 

Mark what" s sublime ; 
Then let thy fancy soar adrift 

In heav'nly chime. 

Thou sees I'm fond aloft to speel, 
'Tho pinclrd to tell my meaning weel ; 
But what giff I by random steal, 

By dint o' rhyme, 
Twa twigs o" laurel frae a chiel 

I winna name. 



I canna mourn my lack o* rhyme, 
But then I'm cramp'd for lack o* time, 
Aye forc'd to drudge for back and wame, 

Altho' my claes 
Wad better fit a warmer clime 

Than Scotland's braes. 

Now when ye\ e glinted at my scroll, 
Wha kens ye'll aiblins think me droll, 
And scarce sincere upon the whole ; — 

But to thy letter, 
O soothe my wild unsettled soul, 

Wi" sang or satire. 

Sing downie buds and heather bells, 
Towering heights and tumbling rills, 
Sing rocky dens and rugged dells, 

Where echoes ring, 
And kindly hearts that fair excels 

A" ither thins*. 



59 



But least frae sense I turn agee, 

I'll e'en lay by my quill awee, 

Wi' wishing health and strength to thee, 

Letting ye ken, 
That Charlie ye'll find in me, 

A lasting frien\ 



TAK IT MAN, TAK IT. 

Tune. — Brose and Butter. 

When I was a Miller in Fyfe, 

Losh ! I thought that the sound o' the happer, 
Said tak hame a wee flow to your wife, 

To help to be brose to your supper. 
Then my conscience was narrow and pure, 

But someway by random it rackit ; 
For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, 

While the happer said, tak it man, tak it. 
Hey for the mill and the kill, 

The garland and gear for my cogie, 
Hey for the whisky and yill, 

That washes the dust frae my craigie. 

Altho' its been lang in repute, 

For rogues to mak rich by deceiving ; 
Yet I see that it does not weel suit, 

Honest men to begin to the thieving. 
For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, 

Od ! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it ; 
Sae I flang frae my neive what was in't, 

Still the happer said, tak it man, tak it. 
Hey for the mill, &c. 



60 



A man that's been bred to the plough, 

Might be deav'd wi' its clamerous clapper ; 
Yet there's few but would suffer the sough, 

After kenning what's said by the happer. 
J whiles thought it scoff 'd me to scorn, 

Saying shame, is your conscience no checkit ; 
But when I grew dry for a horn, 

It chang'd aye to tak it man, tak it. 

Hey for the mill, &c. 

The smugglers whyles cam wi' their pocks, 

'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker ; 
Sae I bartered whyles wi" the gowks, 

Gied them grain for a soup o' their liquor. 
I had lang been accustom'd to drink, 

A nd aye when I purpos'd to quat it, 
That thing wi' its clappertie clink, 

Said aye to me tak it man, tak it. 

Hey for the mill, &c. 

But the warst thing I did in my life, 

Nae doubt but ye'U think I was wrang o't, 
Od, I tauld a bit bodie in Fyfe 

A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't. 
I have aye had a voice a' my days, 

But for singing I ne'er got the knack o't : 
Yet I tried whyles, just thinking to please 

The greedy, wi' tak it man, tak it. 

Hey for the mill, &c. 

Now, miller and a' as I am, 

This far I can see through the matter ; 
There's men mair notorious to fame, 

Mair greedy than me or the muter. 



61 



For 'twad seem that the hale race o"* men, 
Or wV safety the half we may mak it, 

Had some speaking happer within, 
That said to them, tak it man, tak it. 

Hey for the mill, &c. 



DUNTOCHER LASSES. 

Air. — Roy's Wife. 
Ye bards wha sing the sweets o' home — 

Sweets nae foreign sweets surpasses, 
Sing the braes below Duncombe, 

Where blooms the blythe Duntocher lasses. 

O the blythe Duntocher lasses, 

The bonny blythe Duntocher lasses, 

To me yon upland scenes are dear, 
But dearer far Duntocher lasses. 



Bratlin down Clyde's bonny vale, 

From the upland lochs and mosses — 

Muirland streams sing in the gale, 
To charm the blythe Duntocher lasses. 

Where the burn frae linn to linn, 

Runs stealing 'neath the briery bushes, 

There I'd spend the sultry noon 

Amang the blythe Duntocher lasses. 

Clear is yon cloudless moon the while, 
Sweet is the life this frame possesses ; 

Sae clear their hearts o' gloomy guile, 
Sae sweet the blithe Duntocher lasses. 



62 



Sweet is wedlock's honey-moon, 
"Mongst itlier transitary blesses ; 

Blithe's the shine o' Summer's sun, 
But blither far Duntocher lasses. 

O the blithe Duntocher lasses, &c. 



MEGG MEIKLE JOHN. 

To a Galic Air. 

Ye ne'er kent Meg Meikle John midwife in Mauchlin, 

She was the widow of lilti-cock Lauchlan ; 

He was a body gaed rockin and rowin, 

For he had a stracht leg and ane wi 1 a bow in't. 

Maggy was boussie frae tap to the bottom, 
Lauchlan was creeshless as leaves in the autumn ; 
And as for their features, folk said it that kent them, 
If nature meant sour anes, she wadna repent them. 

Of the stark aquavitae they baith lo'ed a drappie, 
And when baith capernutie then aye the maist happy ; 
Then of a 1 in the parish this pair was the bawlest, 
Producing maist din like the sea where its shawlest. 

Whyles Lachy wad spurn at whisky like poison, 
Then beginning to pree't, he wad drucken an ocean ; 
But Maggy was into a tipplin gait o't, 
She took a wee drappie aye when she could get it. 

Lauchlan had looms, but was lag at the weaving, 
But fingers and thumbs that were active in thieving ; 



63 



I Lauchlan had looms but few could hae wrought on, 
For Lauchlan had schemes that but few wad hae 
thought on. 

Lauchlan had secrets weel worthy the keeping, 
! Lauchlan made siller when ithers were sleeping, 
! He had a kind o' second sight gien him, 

Lachy saw things where nae ither could seen them. 

But Lauchlan did dee, and was welcomely yirdet, 
The folks said his conscience was carelessly girdet ; 
When it took a rackin, it bate a' description, 
Forbye he'd a tongue that was fu' o' deception. 

The lossing o' Lachy gied Maggy nae sorrow, 
She kent she'd get wooers anew for to borrow ; 
For Maggy had wooers dear to her remembrance, 
While Lachy was auld, and to her an encumbrance. 

Now Lachy's awa, and the bodies in Mauchlin, 
Doth wish widow Megg as weel yirded as Lauchlan • 
But Lauchlan had cunning surpassing his fello ws 
He die't just in time for escaping the gallows. 



THE MINSTREL. 

The minstrel and his cannie wee wife, 

Sat in their humble bower ; 
And sair they mourn'd the waes o' life, 

That they were aye sae puir. 
The minstrel strove aye to impart 

What comfort he could gie ; 
But the sigh cam aye frae his wee wife's heart, 

And the round tear frae her e'e. 



04 



But soon there earn a ray o' light, 

As if frae the heaven abone, 
And shone through the minstrel's heart sae bright, 

Till joy was spread around. 
His wee wife saw its glad'ning beam, 

And soon she began to croon ; 
And the minstrel put his harp in trim, 

That had lang been out o* tune. 



RAB KICKYS EPITAPH. 

Here lies below Rab Kicky's banes, 

And thus the metre rins : 
His coals were just as free o' stanes, 

As his soul was free o' sins. 
As for his feelings or his sense, 

Unless a lie I force, 
He couldna claim on nae pretence, 

Nae mair o't than his horse. 



STANZA. 

Some said Johnny R 11 was dead, 

But Johnny with pinch is alive ; 

He has o'er meikle judgement to live, 
But o'er meikle dafliu to thrive. 

The warld may say what it will, 
And Johnny doun-hearted despise ; 

Mair wisdom 'is "neath Johnny's scull, 
Than in others that's counted mair wise. 



81 



RENFREW FAIR. 

Twas summer —the muirland rills 

Row'd down frae the uplands fu' clearly ; 
Our rustics, o'er weel furrow'd fields, 

At auld Scottish ditties sang cheerly. 
To the Hawket I dauner't east by, 

There a squad o' us met in auld Tillie's ; 
Had a rift o' a crack about kye, 

'Bout ploughing", and pownies, and fillies. 



There was Robin and Mash o 1 the mill, 

Will Drybroth, and wee Andrew Larmmie, 
Jock Jack frae the face of the hill, 

Mysel', and ane blustering Tammy. 
The morning gaed merrily on, 

The lads laid their lugs in the pap in j 
And Tammy, aye loud in the lone, 

Ca'd aye for the gill and the chappin. 

'Twas roar'd by a loon that was there, 

That since we were a' at sic leisure, 
We might gang to see Aranthrew fair, 

And just mak a day o't o' pleasure. 
Ane said he should been at the mill, 

Anither should been at the smiddy ; 
" Hoot ! the morn is coming, ,, quo Will, 

" Let's free o' the halter for ae day." 

We agreed to gang daun'ring doun by-rr 
The deil ane was scrimpit o' siller, 

Save Andrew, wha now looked shy, 

And he borrow'd twa hog frae the miller. 
6 



82 



" Sirs P quo" J ock, " gin my beasts werena thrang, 
I might saddl'cl my sonsie mare Maggie ;'" 

" Troth," quo" I, "man, the gate's no sae lang, 
Ye may hobble down by on shauks naigie." 

Now forgath'ring wi* folk on the road, 

And cracking wi 1 ane and anither ; 
There ane had a gingerbread load, 

Here ane had a stirk in a tether. 
'Mang hucksters and muirland herds, 

I thought 1 might shew my discerning ; 
Sae wi' round-about lang-nebbed words, 

L osh ! I made them think vow at my learning. 

Then quo' ane, as he turn'd up his mouth 

Wi 1 an air as if wishing to please, man ; 
" Friend, dinna ye think this lang drouth 

Will soon gie our markets a heeze, man }" 
" I dinna doubt, neebour,"" quo* I, 

As I proffer" d a hair o" my sneeshin"; 
" Things man e"en get a lift by and by, 

Or they'll neither be rentin' nor leasin"." 

" Now," quo" Andrew, " I'm e'en getting cla 

The fient haet I've pree"d since my supper : 
Gif Fish Mary's house be na thrang, 

We mauu e'en hae a daud o' her kip] 
" Will we get a bit corner ?" quo* Tarn ; 

So a room up the stair was the reddest ; — 
Syne we ea'd for a chack and a dram, 

O" what we thought cheapest and big_ 

Economy now was the theme, 

And morals their minds were adorning ; 



83 



But John Barleycorn soon was to blame — 
Morals fled like the mists o' the morning-. 

For some cramm'd their bellies wi 1 meat, 
Ay, and drink, till they tint a 1 their senses ; 

Ithers rave at a bap on the street, 
For they said it was saving- expenses. 

Wi' the tooming o' tumblers and jugs, 

Some sculls grew mair thin, some grew thicker. 
Common sense was a' flung to the dogs, 

And reason was drown* d in the liquor. 
Tarn sat wi' his legs o'er the winnock, 

And vow but he thought himser braw, man ; 
In ae hand a daud o' a bannock, 

Tn the tither the tail o 1 a saiimon. 

Wi 1 hoochin 1 and crackin' his whup, 

The youngsters around him cam staring ; 
He halloo'd on the lads to come up 

And buy their bit lassocks a fairing. 
He swore he wad hap, stap, and loup, 

Ay or fecht ony man i 1 the parish : 
But down he fell clash on his doup, 

Whilk soon put an end to his flourish. 

His hurdies got siccan a shake, 

He thought he was a' hornshottle ; 
Syne gwamin", began for to bock, 

Till revived by the effect o* the bottle. 
The weavers began him to jeer 

As weel as the horse-whupper Johnnie's, 
As, like Jamie Magee's hunger 1 d mare, 

He hirpl d in by wi' his cronies. 



84 



Wi' the fuddling 6' whisky and ale, 

The lads grew sae tipsy and merry. 
Daft gowks ! they wad now hae a sail ; 

Sae down we gaed a' to the ferry. 
But yon muckle water, wr waves, 

At sailing soon turn'd my stomach : 
" Sooth ! yell a* meet wi" watery gra\ e>, 

As sure as my name it is Jamock. 

"Gude trowth! I'll remain on the clod, 

I ne'er liket boats i" the warl' ; 
Gif I think about ganging abroad, 

Nae sailing for me — faith ! I'll hurl." 
Now ere they won far frae the land, 

Something catch" d the bit yawl by the bottom ; 
Sirs ! and just on the clap o' a hand 

It whum'led clean owre, like a tottum. 

Then, losh ! sic a murmur and cry ! 

What hurry, confusion, and clatter! 
Till some chiels, wi* a boat that lay by, 

Drew the gomerals out o'the water. 
The boatmen that stood on the brink, 

First vex'd for to see them sae drookit. 
Began now to laugh and to wink ; — 

Losh ! to see them, — how sheepish they lookit ! 

Tammy Bluster now glamm'd for his purse, 

But lo ! it was tint in the water ; 
Hang a lip like a brewerie horse, 

As he sabbit and sigh'd owre the matter. 
The news had now reached the town, 

And folk cam a" riuniug and driving, 
Saying, " Lads, O ! was't you that was drown'd ? 

Losh ! T*iii sure ve'll be fflad that veVe li\ in "." 



So 



Wr a face haflins vvae, haflins glad, 

Quo' Lizzy to halucket Jennock, 
" Losh ! see'st thou, lass, there's the same lad 

That was shewing his airs at the winnock. 
Nae better could fa 1 in his hand ; 

Our young folk's gane gyte now wi' drinkin'; 
The loon might been tenting his land — 

Which mae folk than me will be thinkin'. 

To put themsels ance mair in trim, 

Now down in an alehouse they're sitting, 
A' braggin' how weel they could soom, 

If they'd had but warning or fitting. 
Now Rab wish'd to see Mash better luck, 

As he drank the last groat he could jingle ; 
While Mash, like a pitifu' duck, 

Sat beekin his shins at the ingle. 

Tarn lookit as wylart and odd 

As he'd hung half an hour in a tether ; 
Wi' a face like a tailor's law broad, 

Losh ! he stood and he glowr'd like a wether. 
Now had ye but seen them maist bare, \ 

While their claes hung to dry on a paling ; 
They ru'd they had come to the fair, 

Or that e'er they had thought upon sailing. 



THE MAID O' MOSSWALOW. 

when will ye vie wi' the maid of Mosswalow, 
Ye flowers of the forest 'tho rich your perfume ; 
Nae bell on the mountain — nae rose of the valley, 
Can rival my lassie, sae matchless her bloom. 



Sfl 



She's fair as the lily, when clews of the e'ening 
In siller bells tremble on floweret and tree; 
With beauty and love in her features convening; 
There's naething in nature sae charming to me. 

O'er the scenes of my youth how delightfu' to wander > 
Where the first rays of hope beam'd so bright in my 

eye; 
But sweeter they smile when reflecting I ponder 
On her that first drew from this bosom a sigh. 
Then come to my bower lovely maid of Mosswalow, 
There woodbine and wildflower around us shall twine, 
We'll fondly recline on the primrose sae yellow, 
While joyful in youth is thy bosom and mine. 






SALLY M'LURKAN. 

1 was diggin potatoes — my family required some, 
But my limbs they fell lag, and the labour was tire- 
some ; 
So I thought just to put me in humour for working, 
I might sing you a verse of sweet Sally M'Lurkan. 
Sally M'Lurkan, be it known to all men, 
Was the daughter of one that was son of a woman. 
To the world she came without ever a sark on ; 
So uncommon the birth of young Sally M'Lurkan. 

CHORUS. 

Young Sally was neat as Pat Cox wedding roast was, 
As modest and meek as Pat Donochie's ghost was ; 
Her features were sweet as the pig of Pat Jerkin — 
Such a jewel of a creature was Sally M'Lurkan. 
But Sally grew old — she snuff* d and she smoked, 
She drank like a fish — then she cough'd and Aie 
iMcked ; 



I *' 

j Her throat was lier ruin, so inflam'd by a spark in't, 
' It baffled the virtue of Sally M'Lurkan. 
j Soon her cheeks wither'd, and yellow as ochre, 
j Her lips grew as blue as my grandmother's proker ; 
With a body the shape of a clumsy soap firkin, 
Such a neat little creature was Sally M'Lurkan. 

Sally's aspect was wild, but I'll tell you what worse 

was, 
Her mind was as vacant and empty's her purse was ; 

| When she spoke, she resembled a dog when he's 
barkin' — 

| So tunefull the voice of sweet Sally M'Lurkan. 

] Her brow it was flat, and the skin of it wrinkled, 
Her nose it was clumsily clad wi' carbuncles : 
With the rawts on her chin, it's worthy remarking 
There ne'er was a beauty like Sally M'Lurkan. 

But Sally fell sick, and the most of her grief was, 
f Sure they told her the sexton her only relief was; 

Then reflection confirming— her conscience a dark 
one — 

She sung with vexation young Sally M'Lurkan. 

Then she call'd for a painter, as sure it is nonsense, 

To paint the parts white, that were black in her con- 
science ; 

Paddy swore he could do it, but told her to hearken, 

If your inside was out — my dear Sally M'Lurkan. 

EPJSTLE TO W II T PL N. 

All hail ye tender feelings dear, 

The smile of love— the friendly tear— 

The sympathetic glow. 

Sweet solitude — ance inair alane, 
Since now I'm in a rhymin' strain, 



88 



Yet something bids me aye refrain^ 
Like diffidence ; 

Till friendship urging on my pen, 
Bids me commence. 



Sae I've begun— 'tho o'er my head 
There seems to hang a kind o' dread, 
And aye my muse begins to plead 

Some grave excuses ; 
Na faith, frae what's been o' her said, 

She maist refuses. 

Altho that she, poor simple hizzie ! 
Wr me has been some towmonds bizzie ; 
I'm ca'd (the thought o't dings me crazy) 

A worthless bard — 
Sae now she's grown baith douf and lazy 

Through sic reward. 

Nae wonder o't ; she may be pitied, 
To hear her rhymes sae under-rated — 
To see her master shunn'd and slighted 

Wi' cauld disdain ; 
Gude kens if e'er she'll be elated 

On earth again. 

I kent her shagreen'd and spotted, 

As I insisted aye she freted, 

Wi' awkward step she onward doited, 

Hooly enough ; 
I. saw she was a wee conceited, 

'Tho rude and rough. 



89 



But backwards glinting- at my state, 
I saw I'd friends in spite o 1 fate, 
That would my dowie mind elate 

Amidst my crosses, 
And send me daunering up the gate 

To see Parnassus. 

This eas'd my heart o' hauf its pain, 
And sae enlightened, a 1 my brain, 
The lines cam rattlin ane by ane, 

J ust as I wanted ; 
1 dar'd the critics o'er again, 

And hauflins vaunted. 

Whyles like a madman driving hence — 
Whyles pinch'd eneugh to speak wi' ser 
VV hyles forc'd to cringe for lack o' penc 

In worldly dealings ; 
Yet I hae friends, thank Providence, 

Looks o'er my failings. 

I'll aye rejoice in thee, man, Willie, 

Thou sings a Scottish sang sae skilly, 

Through thy bright parts, I'm proud to tell thee, 

I yet may shine, 
And drive false prejudice sae slily 

Frae ilka mind. 

All hail ! my kindly, canty chiel — 
Hale be thy heart sae warm and leal ; 
Thou cheers my gloomy soul sae weel — 

Thy mirth and wit — 
Should wives gang scouldin to the deil^ 

I'll see thee yet. 



90 



Nae doubt ye'll ferly at my strain, 
And think the lines are a* my ain ; 
But time and my unsettled brain, 

In proofs fir ample, 
May shew thee &' that's come and gane 

Is but a sample. 

Sae dinna tire my long- epistle — 

Fling- bye thy violin and whistle ; 

The spool deil damn'd that we man bustle, 

O'er it for bread. 
But to my tale — I'm but a hushle 

At ony trade. 

There's Adam wi" blythe and sonsy face, 
And Hatrick wi' air o' grace, 
There's Ingles, too, in ilks place, 

The soul o' glee ; 
And Meikle, a chiel o' sage grimace, 

Wha wills us free. 

There's Yuill, whase tender feelings flow 

For ilka human soul in woe ; 

There's Dick wi" heart o' kindly glow. 

And couthie smile : 
Wi' thoughts o' them my members row 

J n smoother stile. 

There's Gregor my grave sagacious frien", 
The orator and critic keen — 
O tent his scrutinizing een, 

He touzles sair ; 
But hark ! I'll straik him wi' the grain, 

And speak him fair. 



:)I 



Thou wha aft toots on freedom's horn— 
Wha wails auld Scotia's laurels torn — 
Peace to tliy slumbers e'en and morn, 

A bliss that scarce is — 
O dinna treat wi' air o* scorn, 

My namely verses. 

Nor shall I in my rhymes neglect 
A Fleming- affable and meek ; 
And Gemmel, wr warmest respect, 

I'll aye revere ; 
While struggling to the hopeless wreck 

Of life's career. 

And L — d remember printer Charlie, 
Wi" fouth o' beer-meal scones and barley, 
O make his youthfu' nodle yearly 

Become mair witty ; 
And comfort singing Tammy, merely 

Out o* thy pity. 

But L — d 'bon a ', if t be thy will, 
Help me a sinner up the hill ; 
And when I'm roaring o'er a gill, 

'Mang bodies strange, 
L — d guard my rhymin rattle scull 

Frae foul revenge. 

For L — d thou kens I'm but a stirk, 
Wha 1 tentless staumers i' the mirk, 
Unkenning whar the fiends may lurk 

Wha punish crimes ; 
L— d turn my mind mair to the kirk, 

And soothe my rhymes. 



92 



Tlio circumscribed souls look sour, 
And spurn wi" cauld disdain my door — 
Tlio passion-driven in festive hour, 

Igangagee; 
Wax strong contempt — I'll higher soar 

In spite o' thee. 

O had I the poetic turns 

Of Ramsay, Ferguson, or Burns 

A fig for formalists wha spurn 

The roving man ; 
Its no a sameness that adorns 

Through nature's plan. 

Lord strengthen your ilka stick and string, 
By whilk we a dependant hing ; 
Till round the stoup in jovial ring 

I meet wi 1 you ; 
Ance mair, dear Will, to rant and sing 

'A nodin fou. 



SONG. 

Air — " Buckie Shelandic." 
Ye'll hae heard o* a cheil that's gaun straught to the 
deil, 
O'er fond o* the drappie, o'er fond o" the drappie ; 
'Tho he's gien to remorse, yet he's still making worse, 

And ever unhappy, and ever unhappy. 
With his sangs and his rhymes, and his unpolish'd 
chymes, 
He's crazed his nodle, he's crazed his nodle, 
While he's ca'd for reward but a trifling bard, 
No worthy a bodle, do worthy a bodle. 



93 

As he's gaun down the hill, he may lay down his quill, 

To ane that's ca'd Sandy, to ane that's ca'd Sandy ; 
With energetic matter, he screeds doun a satire, 

And his sangs are the dandy, his sangs are the 
dandy. 
When his poetic pow, like his oven's in glow, 

He ramps and he rages, he ramps and he rages, 
Ev'n his enemy laugh, as the swats they do quaff, 

At his comical pages, his comical pages. 

Sandy caresna a fig, for the wee or the big, 

The black coats or white anes, the black coats or 
white anes, 
In rhyme bauld and free, he throws them alee, 

Wi' furious flytings, wi 1 furious fly tings. 
May Sandy lang screed on his auld mither's reed, 

And scourge the vile rogies, and scourge the vile 
rogies, 
Wha'd scrimp by intrusion, and misterious delusion, 

Our reason and cogies, our reason and cogies. 

'■ But a fig says the chiel, that's gaun straught to the 
deil, 
For the Whigs and the Tories, the Whigs and the 
Tories ; 
While in power they're a band wha deludes passive 
man, 
With sophistical stories, with sophistical stories. 



SONG. 

Air — " Willie was a wanton wag.' 
Hameward Willie let's be steering, 
Keepna me against my will ; 






See the sun is downwards wearing- 
Far ayont the westland hill. 

Larks their parting- notes have chaunted, 
The thrush sits dowie in the wood ; 

When at hame at e'en I'm wanted, 
My daddie's in a cankry mood. 

Stay, my lassie, let us wander — 

Gloamiirs sweeter far than noon ; 
Though the sun be sinking yonder, 

Cynthia's beams will cheer us soon. 
Calm's the wind upon the mountain — 

See the inist-clad lake is still — 
Sweet the murmur o' the fountain, 

Echoes from the cliffy hill. 

Stay with me thy truest love, 

'Fill the gloamin's balmy dew, 
Urg-e the sweetly smelling clover, 

A 1 its airs around to strew. 
Such were Willie's words sae moving, 

Ply'd to win the lassie's heart, 
Till at length they grew sae loving, 

Laith was she frae him to part. 



SONG. 

Air — " He's were the hills." 

We'll sing of the mortal that feels for our woes ; 
Wha to a 7 human beings is social, jocose ; 
Wi" philanthropy's fountain sae pure at his heart. 
Ave sae free o" deceit and dissembling art. 



95 



Then round \vr the liquor, the strong and the sma, 
We'll drink to his peace, to his worth, aboon a', 
Wha feels with the feeling, and soothes them in 

waes ; 
Serene be his mind till the close o* his days. 

May the fates ever bless himwi' bannocks and brose ! 
Aye dry be his doublet, and hale be his hose ! 
Aye beaming- his face with enlivening smile ! 
I His heart ne'er a victim to falsehood or guile ! 
Then round witli the liquor, tic. 

I 

| Nae ambition, nor envy o' riches, hae we ; 
We hae mair o' contentment than grandeur can gie ; 
Nae vain affectation is seen in our air — 
To be blythe with the blythe is the hale o' our care. 
Then round with the liquor, &c. 

Nae faemen are we to the Kirk or the State, 
Nae sage devotees at our neebours to fret ; 
Our keenest desire is to follow this plan, 
To be friendly and honest between man and man. 
Then round with the liquor, &c. 

Nae scholors are we, of our learning to vaunt, 
Madam Nature's to blame if our wit it be scant ; 
But gude Highland whisky, and foaming brown beer, 
Our fancies can brighten, onr bosoms can cheer. 

Then round with the liquor, the strong and the sma', 
We'll drink to his peace, to his worth, aboon a', 
* Wha feels with the feeling, and soothes them in 
waes ; 
Serene be his mind till the close o" his days ! 



96 



EPITAPH ON J. CAMERON. 

As pious a christian lies below, 
As e'er that title claim' d ; 

Vice never fill'd his breast with woe, 
For virtue he was fam'd. 



Bless" d with serenity of soul, 

His air was frank and free ; 
He every passion did control 

With calm philosophy. 

His ways were peace, his heart was pure. 

His talents brought him merit ; 
And as his works deserved bliss, 

So shall his soul inherit. 

Let Scotia's genius sit and mourn 

With sympathy and wae 
Upon her servant Cameron's urn, 

That moulders in the clay. 



EPITAPH. 

Davie deil, Davie deil, when your brains shall con, 
geal, 

And your body's laid under the clod, 
Ye may do to mak sport to the hell-sinking sort, 

For ye aye took the baeksliding road. 



97 

DONALD GUN. 

Air — Johnny Pringle. 

Heard ye e'er o' Donald Gun, 

Ance sae duddie, douff, and needy, 
Now a laird in yonder town — 

Calous hearted, proud, and greedy. 
Up the glen abone the linns, 

Donald met wi 1 Maggy Miller ; 
Woo'd the lass amang the whins, 

'Cause she had the word o* siller. 

Meg was neither trig nor braw, 

Many fauts the fo'k had till her ; 
Donald looked o'er them a', 

A' his thoughts the penny siller. 
Donald soon grew braid and braw, 

Ceas 1 d to bore the whinstone quarry— 
Maggy's money paid for a 1 , 

Breeks instead o 1 duddie barry. 

Tho' as ignorant's a stirk, 

Tho' as stupid as a dunky, 
Yet by accidental jerk 

Donald rides before a flunky. 
In his breast a blawd o' stane, 

'Neath his hat a box o' brochan, 
In his hand a waly cane — 

Thus the tyrant rules the claclian. 

Clachan bairns rin wi' fright, 

Clachan dogs tak to their trotters, 

Clachan wives the pathway dicht, 
To tranquilize his heart and features. 



98 



Gangrel bodies on the street, 
Beck and bow to mak him civil, 

Tenant bodies in his debt, 

Shun him as they'd shun the devil. 

At ilk market tryst or fair, 

Donald's face creates a terror ; 
Neebour there comes ane, beware, 

Fu 1 o 1 rogery, vice, and error. 
Donald baith can lie and cheat, 

Or wi" pinch 'nent priest or el'er, 
Act the canting- hypocrite, 

Aught to mak or save him siller. 

Donald's rough and Donald's rude, 

Direfif deeds to him are sweetest- 
Of a' the sinners since the flood, 

Donald's certainly the greatest. 
If there be sic beneath the sun, 

As beings of a corrupt nature, 
The greatest ane is Donald Gun, 

Throughout all animated nature. 

I have seen the shadow ot such a character. 



THE CANTY CARLE. 

Air — " Cameron's (/often his nife again? 

The canty carle o'er the clachan, 

The canty carle o'er the clachan, 

His hearts aye light, his face aye laughin",- 

The cantv carle o'er the clachan. 



99 



It's no a shallowness o' brain, 

That maks him frisky, blythe, and fain ; 

It's no the want o' literature ; 

But just a g-iftie gien by Nature. 

Tho 1 death has left him lane and single, 

He talks fu' cheery by the ingle ; 

Gets comfort frae his pipe and spleuchan, — 

The canty carle o'er the clachan. 

The wee things a' come todlin round him, 
The very dogs a' fawn upon him ; 
Nor grows he camsheugh at the creatures, 
But sympathizes wi' their natures. 
He has nae fretfu' turn o' mind, 
But ever couthy, blythe, and kind ; 
Contented wi' his cog o' brochan, — 
The canty carle o'er the clachan. 

Nae drinker but in moderation, — 
He^taks a drap for recreation ; — 
Nor will he fash himsel debating ; 
But lo'es a sober social meeting. 
He harms nane —he fears nae ill — 
Thinks mankind a' as gude's himsel ; 
Nor does he spurn the young anes" damn', — 
The canty carle o'er tlie clachan. 

The canty carle o'er the clachan, 
The canty carle o'er the clachan ; 
His heart's aye light, his face aye laughing- 
Tile canty carle o'er the clachan. 

This character might be a lesson to modem priests. 



100 



GROANS FROM THE GARRET. 

Still, still to hope, but oh in vain. 

To dream of bliss a:;d wake in pain. . .THOMSON. 

Still to blasted hope resigning-, 

My soul is shadow'd o'er with sorrow, 

Like the moon so cold and waining, 
Rays to-night are lost to-morrow. 

When in youth fond hope we nourish, 

Anticipating joys to come, 
Short's their bloom ; if e'er they flourish, 

Soon they're stripped of that bloom. 

Solitude altho 1 I love thee, 

Now I'm sicken'd of thy cell, 
But yet I would not choose to leave thee, 

To mix their cheerfu' jovial swell. 

In a wretched shed 'mongst lumber, 
Scarcely screen'd from winter" s scowl, 

Angry blasts amidst my slumber, 
Seems congenial to my soul. 

Hapless the mind when all its charms, 

Is in the elements that groan ; 
Joyless the heart when howling storms, 

Seems in unison with its moan. 

Happier I in life's gay morning, 

E'er 1 learu'd myself to know- 
Age brings man to scenes of mourning, 
Knowledge and pleasure. fraught with woe. 



101 

O had I in life's gay blossom 
Mingled with my mother dust, 

E'er such pains had rack'd my bosom, 
Paid that debt which pay I must. 

Was it to make our joys the sweeter, 
That they are mingled with pain — 

Was it to render our hopes the greater, 
That they so often prove so vain. 

This instant with the angels soaring, 
We sing where heavenly echoes swell; 

Next moment o'er the fates deploring, 
We prematurely taste of hell. 

Hark to me my fellow wretches, 

Who in vicious ways do go, 
Hear, a fool experience teaches, 

All his days are doom'd to woe. 

Sometimes I with firm contrition, 
Shun the paths which lead to pain : 

Virtue smiles — but soon delusion, 
Brings affliction back again. 

Ever yeilding to temptation, 

Ever for the same opprest ; 
Reft of peace no relaxation, 

From a horror-haunted breast. 

More and more in poortith sinking, 

Must I thus my tale relate ; 
Hearts of feeling, heads of thinking, 

Give ye gods to whom ye hate. 



102 

But still I trust the friendly powers, 

Ne'er eternal woe designed ; 
Then grant, ye gods, some peaceful hour, 

As comfort to a tortur'd mind. 

Give me the Indian's passive eye, 

Who careless views the rolling wave ; 

Give me his cheerful heart, that I 
May cease to be a thoughtful slave. 

Begone reflection, with thy sting, 

No traitor sure no murderer I ; 
Sheath thy keen dart, and let me sing 

Of joys to come with cheerful eye. 

What tho' the world should blight my fame, 
And slanderous treat my mournful chimes — 

What tho' no lordling with his name, 
Should sanction merit in my ryhmes. 

I scorn the world — the world knows not me, 
Save by my humble garb and aspect mean ; 

Tho' oft I mark the slanderous speaking e'e, 
And hears with cool disdain the vacant mind. 

The bulk of mankind's an unthinking race, 
Unknown to feelings forming remorse. 

Ask not the fop that's foremost in the chace 

Where are his brains, but say they're in his purse. 

Let fortune dance on life's luxuriant stream, 
Let coxcombs revel in the pomp of state — 

Purer my pleasures, tho" but transient gleam, 
Than all the pompous grandeur of the great. 



103 



jTHE LADS FRAE CRAIGNAUGHT AND THE 
POLICE. 

Air. — " The beadle of the parish." 
'When our Rab and me cam doun frae Craignaught 
to Paisley toun, 
To get insight of every tiling that droll is ; 
Losh we got oursel's baith fu', and kick'd up a meikk 
row, 
Sae the townsmen they sent for the police. 
Sae they forc'd us in a room that did like a dungeon 
gloom, 
As if we had been jowlers or collies ; 
I But giff I had had my whup when they laid us in 
lock up, 
I wad play'd the very devil wi' the police. 

After lingering a while in their sort o' police jail, 
They charged us five white shillings for our lodg- 
ing; 
With a formal hum and ha they explained to us the 
law, 
So we paid them wi' a gram! in' and grudging. 
But they gied us an advice in future to be wise, 
And refrain from our drunkenness and follies ; 
But giff I had had my whup when they laid us in lock 

L — d I'd play'd the very devil with the police. 

With their cudgels in their neives, just as honest men 
were theives, 
They shook them at us purposely to fear us, 
Sooth and a 1 our cash they got, save a trifling grev 
groat, 
We could scarce! v aret a dram for to cheer us. 



104 



But the polishers o' towns are a set o' greedy loons, 
That wi' tyranny would try to control us ; 

But giff I had had my whup when they laid us in lock 
up, 
Gude faith I wad polish" d the police. 

Then o'er the muir ftf straught we hied us to Craig- 
naught, 
To tell o 1 ilk mishanter that befel us ; 
And we swore by sand and clay, and by Neilston pad 
sae hie, 
That nane could at warslling excel us. 
Trudging- o'er Gleniffer braes faith we dared a* our 
faes, 
Wha thought like lumps o" dirt they could roll us ; 
And if I had had my whup when they laid us in lock 
up, 
T wad a play'd the muckle devil wi* the police. 



EPISTLE TO J S T H— LL, 

THEN AT DUMBARTON. 

Awake ye drousy dunses a", 
Wha try to scribble jinglin' jaw, 
Ye pridefu' pests wha puff and blaw, 

"Bout ryhmin' skill, — 
Up, up, your dawdry doublets draw, 

And use your quill. 

You wha the best o" books pern- 
For food to feed your hungry mo 



106 

Pretending aye, but aye refuses 
A sang or satire — 

You and be d — d to your excusers, 
Ye'll ne'er be better. 



You and your dead-like dormant pashes, 
Wha pick and wale for lofty flashes, 
And at the end your pieces trash is 

Prosaic at best, — 
With hurdies at a baud ye hashes, 

Ye're to the test. 



While pithlessly ye pant for praise, 
And study till your heads ye craze, 
Ye gloits gae wonder glower and gaze 

To Lomond hill, 
Where a superior star doth blaze, 

Ca"d Tannahill. 



I dinna mean the modest Rab, 
Wha was sae'meek and mum o' gab- 
Compard wi' him I'm but a slab 

Of genuin tree ; 
It's Jamock that's begun to dab 

In poetry. 

Ye pawky wee red headed scybel, 
Wha lo'es like me to drink a drible, 
Giff ye begin to dab and dible 

In rhymin' clink, — 
Ye'll get but scorn for your trouble, 

Like me I think. 



106 

Tho' I'm unfond of giving praise, 
And as unfond of gathering faes, 
Yet there are numsculls now a days, 

Wha weet the pen, 
Mair cramp and awkward in their lays, 

Than you my friend. 

1 scorn a 1 sic foul pretentions. 
Sic idiotical apprehensions, 
Sic damp unnatural inventions, 

Which gie disgust, — 
Sic dolts are d — d in all dimensions, 

] f write they must. 

Bodies wha wad write should twine, 
With ready link the line to line, 
Make weildiness and wit combine, 

Nae signs o' force, — 
Nor staggering to hap and wynd, 

Like a lame horse. 

Here where your servant Davie sits, 
With withered lips and geezen'd guts, 
Would need to broch bottles and butts 

Had he the clink, 
To reap twalpenny worth o : wits 

Frae nappy drink. 

But there is ane a rattlin' billie, 
Ca'd Joseph Tuck or Findlay Willie, 
Wha turns a m fa* skillie, 

"Tkout faint or falter, — 
That some just for his rhymes unruly, 

Wish him a halter. 



107 



That sleeket sa't satiric saul, 
Or rhyming- roaring rattlescull, 
Wha's powerfu' pen is like a bull 

In china shop — 
Pretensions vveel can render null 

Of empty fop. 

Let him ivi' pedantry forgather, 

The prodigal or miser either, 

J ust gie him a hair to mak a tether, 

He needs nae mair, 
But swirls awa without a swither, 
His rhyming ware. 

My faith he'll soon eclipse us a', 
Just wi 1 his wud wild wimplin* jaw — 
Ae neebour daurna share at a' 

His comrade's brose, 
Till Willie catches wi' his claw, 

Him by the nose. 

We darna drink an extra dribble, 
Rejoicing at the end o 1 trouble, 
Till he begins to nip and nibble, 

To jeer and jest, 
And a' our bits o 1 saying scribble 

The Poet pest. 

For me, Lord knows, Til no dare speak, 
Sae laboured like my lines do cleek, 
But some sequestered cell must seek, 

Unseen by a', 
Till Willie's blaze, baith flame and reek, 

Hae worn awa." 



108 

O tuneless brain, O brainless pan ! 
This breast sae void of plot or plan, 
Ye'd think poor chucky in her hand, 

Might haud my harns, — 
Since twa three verse I canna scan 

Mair than the bairns. 

But poortith reigning- in my dwelling, 
Mv brats o* weans and wifie yelling, 
Lord man I daurna, even tho' willing, 

Gae drink a bodle, 
Which ding the thoughts o' writin* and spellin' 

Clean out my nodle. 

There's ne'er a fool without a faut, 
Each sober saint bodie says that, 
There's no a country but what 

Maun hae a deil — 
But my wee wifie thinks the maut 

Ser'es her as weel. 

But L — d watch o'er and bless thee Jamock, 
Wi' couthy wife and cozie hammock, 
With dainty dawds o' bread and drummock, 

To fill your wame, — 
With aye a hale and healthy stomach, 

To tak the same. 

Since rhyming 1 thou has sic an art in, 
Each dell and dingle round Dumbarton, 
Them wilt thou celebrate for certain, 

And sing their beauties, — 
With fish frae saumon till a partan, 

A' that minute i^. 



109 

Nae doubt sic scenery ye'll praise — 

The mountains, waters, bowers, and braes, 

Its rock o' strength which dar'd our foes 

In former times, — 
Till bodies wonder as they gaze 

Upon your rhymes. 

The women wha upon their b — ms 

Sit spinning-, singing- Dumbarton drums, 

Cording wi' drousie pussie's thrums 

May now rejoice ; 
Nae mair they'll need in sic auld hums, 

To raise their voice. 

Now tinty of my former text, 

Formality's come forward next, 

You tho' ye gied your friend the glaiks 

For greed o' copper, 
Hae sent you here their best respects 

Ye vile land louper. 

Your auld club mates, a canty quorum, 

As ever push'd about the jorum, 

Ne'er cramp their g-lee wi 1 vain decorum, 

Or affectation, 
But free and affable hairum scarum, 

In recreation. 

Tho' now a days, like me forsooth, 
They're working- just frae hand to mouth, 
They manage whyles to slack their drouth, 

A random drappie, 
Round which, as usual, they are couth, 

And unco happy. 



110 

But Jamock, if "mang Dumbarton folk, 
Ye meet wi* ane ca"d Webster jock, 
A bilslier wee red headed cock, 

Just like thyseP — 
Tell him frae me withouten mock, 

I wish him weel. 

Or should ye ever g-et a glance, 

O" Williamson's smiling face by chance, 

A cheil wha's feeling, worth, and sense, 

On earth surpasses, 
Tell him that Davie sends him hence, 

His warmest wishes. 

Yet I am but a poor wark bodie, 
Delving- wi" doublets thin and duddie; 
My hopes through life are dark and cloudy, 

Nae rays o' light — 
With a my fancy, fire, and study 

Hidden in night. 

I'm but ill suited for a life, 

Sae fir o struggle, strunt, and strife, 

Aye damped wi* the dunts sae rife, 

Ca'd fortune's gloom, — 
I carena whyles the world and Fyfe 

Had their last doom. 

But tho" I'm damped whyles a tift. 
My muse whyles get a heezing lift ; 
And tho* I've but a meagre gift 

O" genuine fire, 
I try to row baith smootli and swift, 

Not to aspire. 



Ill 

And tho my crazie auld clay bonnet, 
Has scarce a sprig o' laurel on it, 
If not to whinstane, rock, or granite, 

It grows or lang, 
I'll send thee soon some sang or sonnet 

O 1 rhyme ding dang. 



SONG. 

Air — i( Cameron 's got his wife again." 

A living character who writes in pain for other men's pleasure. 

Cameron's got his wife again, 
Cameron's got his wife again, 

Tell a' the fo'k in our gait en', 
Cameron's got his wife again. 

Send thro' the bell, send thro' the drum, 
Let a' the clashing women ken, 

At feasts and blithemeats they'll be dumb, 
Since Cameron's got his wife again. 
Cameron's got, &c. 

The lassie couldna bide his drinking, 
Raged and flett wi' might and main ; 

But now she's changed her way o' thinking, 
Cameron's got his wife again. 

Cameron's got, &c. 

Friends bade her bundle up her gear, 

And leave the carle a' alane ; 
But friends grew few when need drew near, 

Cameron's got his wife again. 

Cameron's got, &c. 



112 



When Cameron puts his tlierme in tune 
Or rhyming 1 screeds the lyre again, 

She blythely joins him in a croon, 
As she steers up the fire again. 

Cameron's got, &c* 

She scours his hose, and clouts his duds, 
To keep him clean and cozie, O ; 

And when the stars keek thro' the cluds, 
He taks her in his bozie, O. 

Cameron's got, &c. 



TRUISIMS. 

The voyage is short we meet no storm in, 
The life is short there's no alarm in, 
The day was bright that ne'er was clouded, 
The heart is light that ne'er was loaded. 
Rare are the hopes that ne'er were blasted, 
Sweetest the bliss that ne'er was tasted, 
The features strange that never altered, 
The fancy firm that never faltered, 
Hope's most bright when first created, 
Lightest minds are first elated, 
And blasted hope increases sorrow, 
We sing at night and sigh at morrow. 



LINES 

ON SEEING A NOTORIOUS BIGOT L.4ID IN THE GRAVE 

If bigots be the biggest fools, 

There's anejust now laid in the stools; 
And if good company be wanted, 

In heaven he never shall be sainted. 



113 

RORIE MORE, 

Air — The Campbells are coming. 

j This is a living character a little to the west of Ellensborough, well deserving 
of that which is breathed in the following home-spun verses. 

j Nae doubt but ye ken o' the great Rorie More, 
! The fearless, the peerless, and great Rorie More — 
The king and the counsel his deeds do abhor, 
Yet wish for a legion like great Rorie More. 

| Where Scotia thy mountains to heaven doth soar, 
j In summer sae heathy, in winter sae hoar, 
' There live still as brave as the bravest of yore, 
j But none are more brave than the great Rorie More. 
Gigantic in body, romantic in mind, 
He laughs at the storm, the rain, and the wind — 
The ocean may rave, and the thunder may roar, 
Regardless he hears them this great, Rorie More. 

^Abroad in his wherry when every wild wave 
jSeems threafning to give him a watery grave. 
'He frowns at the landsmen wha lang for the shore, 
And smiles amidst danger this great Rorie More. 
While lawless he roves o'er the field or the flood, 
He shrinks to no lordlin tho' ever so proud ; 
Till with gun or with net he's supplied in his store, 
He dares the most daring this great Rorie More. 

'Mang mountains, lone mosses, and trackless glens, 
He picks up his prey where they're naebody kens ; 
For nane can the wild and the thicket explore, 
Compar'd wi' the dauntless and great Rorie More. 
jSio' the proud and the v auntie and him canna gree, 
Wi 1 the couthy and canty he's blythe and he's free ; 

8 



114 



With his hut on the heath, and his boatie on shore, 
He's healthy and wealthy this great Rorie More. 

With the gude Highland heart in his bosom that 

glows, 
He's the stay of his friends, and the fear of his foes — 
He's civil and social tho' scrimpit o* lore, 
Baith jocular and witty this great Rorie More. 
And whether on sea or his mountains o' mist, 
He kens o' a neebonr wi' sorrow oppress'd, 
He's happy in soothing the heart that is sore, 
For he's a' bodie's body this great Rorie More. 

Nae doubt but ye'll ken, &c. &c. 



THE WASHERWIFE'S SON. 

Air — " The Laird o' Cockpen." 

A sprightly and well-featured animal who brutally used the author for passing 
a joke with him in friendship. 

The washerwife's son o' yon boroughless bowers, 
Wha wastes a' his wealth upon gipseys and whores, 
Met me an auld fool wha was passing a joke, 
And lent me, Lord knows, on the noddle a knock. 

Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' the washerwife's son, 

The wonderful wag of a washerwite's son — 

The daft poet bodies wha lavish in fun, 

Maun be ware when they meet wi' the washerwife's j 



Nae warrior am I, as my cronies a' ken — 

I nae weapon can weild but the screed o* a pen ; 



115 



So wi' my wee scourge to the task I've begun 
To lash the wild wight of a washerwife's son. 

I had little been used wi 1 sic resolute foes, 
Had little o' strength to retaliate blows ; 
Sae like a saft sumph I gaed todlin about, 

Wi' the tear in my e'e, and the blood on my snout. 

j Tho' but humble my ha', and tho' little my pride, 
!Tho' poortith hae banish' d my friends frae my side, 

II hae sworn by the spa«e 'tween the earth and the sun, 
| To hae some sort o' mends o* the washerwife's son. 

iTho' I hae little wealth, little wit o' my ain, 

And tho' little rever'd for the fire o' my brain, 

Yet my rhymes shall row free as the blast frae Dun- 

yun, 
(When wailing the wags o' the washerwife's son. 

iHe drinks and he swears, he revels and rants, 

He frowns on the poor, and he scoffs at the saints ; 

Tho' at times he affects to be sober's a nun, 

Aj in drink he's the wild wicked washerwife's son. 

riio' this washerwife's son has a bonny outside, 
V^et his feelings are course, and his conscience is wide ; 
Throughout his behaviour he acts like the brutes, 
He's all of the beast but the horns and the clutes. 

Tko' Dunbarton, Dunbuck, Dunglass, and Dunoter, 
Dunga, Dunfun, Duncombe, and Duntocher, 
Were heapit thegither to cover his sin, 
Jtill Satan wad seize the wild washerwife's son. 

Ye'll a' hae heard tell, &c. 



116 

SONG. 

Air — "Johnny's Grey Breeks.'* 
O smile on me thou brightest star, 

That ever shone on Christendee, 
Grim poortith ne'er shall be the scar 

To cool the love 'tween thee and me. 
The auld wife thrumming- at her roke, 

Nane fash'd wi* love she sings wi 1 glee ; 
But sooner split the hardest rock, 

Than cool the love 'tween thee and me. 

CHORUS. 

I wadna gie ae wee short hour, 

Kind cuddling to the breast o' thee, 

For a' the gear and gowden ore 
That ever shin'd in miser's e'e. 

I'll rise at morn when chanticlear 

With craw proclaims the early dawn, 
And toil for comforts to my dear, 

Till gloaming dusks fa' o'er the lawn. 
Then hame wards hieing with a smile 

O* glowing love in ilka eV, 
I'll cheer thy artless breast, the while 

The stars spunk in the lift sae hie> 

The wintry winds wi' reekless rair, 

May ruffle river, lake, and sea ; 
And gloomy clouds may dim the air, 

But winna mak my fancy gee. 
Nae summer smile, nor winter scowl, 

Nae rair o' wind, or raging sea — 
Nae thunders roll frae pole to pole 

Shall damp the love 'tween thee and me. 



117 ■ 



Like summer morning serene, 
My mind will be serene to thee ; 

And Jeanie, while I see the sun, 
Thou'll aye be dearest unto me. 

I wadna gie ae wee short hour, &c. 



ROWANDS CLUB. 

" Leeze me on drink/ it gie's us mair 

Than either school or college ; 
It waukens wit, it kin'lei lair. 

And pangs us fu' o' knowledge.".. BURNS. 

A' you wha never kenn'd before, 
The pleasure o' a weekly splore, 
Though ye hae ditches to loup o'er, 

Or causey dub, 
Ye'll ever find a social core 

In Rowand's club. 

A' you wha toil,. hung by the middle, 
That e 1 er set foot upon a treaddle ; 
As to the flowering foot ye striddle, 

To mak ye frisky, 
And fittin' for the weary guddle, 

Tak ale and whisky. 

A' you wha stupify your brain 

Wi 1 rhyme, or law, or things as vain ; 

You wha in trade hae lost your ain, 

As weel's your neebours 1 , 
May get the cause and cure made plairij 

By canty kebars. 



118 

You wha incline a wee to think 

That p -ts whyles at the truth do wink, 

And whether it's for gude or clink 

They rant and rail, 
May get the fact cleard owre a drink 

O' nappy ale. 

Come a' ye poets, pimps, and^pedlars, 
Ye sawyers, souters, and ye saddlers, 
Ye fishers, fowlers, founders, fiddlers, 

Baith lame and blind; 
And a 1 ye squads o' scribes and scribblers, 

Yea ev'ry kind. 

They hae a knack o' ilka beuk ; 
Can tell the cure for ilk misluck ; 
How truths, lang clad in mystic cleuk, 

To light hae risen ; 
Just as they for the cap do look, 

To weet their wizzen. 

They'll lead ye owre baith land and ocean, 
Frae China to the land o' Goshen ; 
Describe ilk droll religious notion, 

Be't gude or evil ; 
And how some tribes, in their devotion, 

Bow to the deevil. 

They'll tell ye o' a thousand queries ; 
Wood gods, bull frogs, and dromedaries ; 
Of nunneries, funneries, and fairies ; 

And temples braw ; 
'Bout Hi and Ho,* how deep their lair was, — 

Lord knows what a'. 

•Two Chinese Philosopher*. 



119 

They ken the feck o' auld financiers, 
Indian jugglers, necromancers, 
The drift o' ceremonial dancers, 

In the rude ages ; 
And a' the fam'd equestrian prancers, 

That grac'd their stages. 

They'll likewise tell ye, Lord preserve us ! 
How brownie beasts were sent to serve us ; 
How holy bishops strove to starve us, 

J ust for our sins ; 
And how John Knox strove to enerve us 

To break their chains. 

They'll point ye out, wi' lengthen'd jaws, 
The origin o* rules and laws ; 
And wha the first o' sailors was, 

Wi 1 ample proof; 
And how the sun stood still, and cause, 

Just clean aff loof. 

And in respect o' modern days, 
They ken the source o' a' our waes, 
Our hungry wames, our duddie claes, 

And drouthy throats ; 
And wha was radicalmt's faes, 

And led the plots. 

They ken a' how the faughts cam on, 
O' Trafalgar and Camperdown ; 
And a that has on sea been done, 

Frae coast to coast ; 
And likewise wha in Washington 

Does rule the roast. 



1 



120 

They'll tell you too sic warlike deeds 

Took place on Borodina's meads ; 

How Russians, for their rights and creeds, 

Did fight and fa 1 ; 
How they Napolean, for his greed, 

Did sairly gnaw. 

And what was in the bodies' pow 
When Russians burn'd down Moscow ; 
And the dimensions o 1 the low, 

As weel they'll tell, 
As they'd been on a neighbouring knowe, 

And seen't themseils. 

And likewise o' the sad retreat, 
When Gallia's sons ran south the gate ; 
How thousands met sic dolefu' fate, 

'Mang frost and snaw ; 
How Cossacks reft them o' their meat, 

Was warst of a*. 

They'll point ye out, wi' sage-like skill, 
What brought great Boney down the hill, 
And what was ilka birkie's will 

That met at Ghent ; 
And a' about the Corn Bill, 

And its intent. 

A' that befa's the kintra round ; 
Sic as meal's price in Haddington ; 
The rate o 1 wark in Embro town, 

They'll tell correct ; 
And a' the news frae Lon"on down, 

They do collect. 






121 

Of a' domestic news they speak ; 
Sic as hae pass'd the bygane week ; 
Sae if ye chance a wab to seek, 

To Rowand's come ; 
There ye'll soon hear o' ane to cleek 

Your vera thrum. 

Or if ye chance to want a mounting 
To work a rinning spot, or squint ane ; 
The price o't, and the shop ye'll fin't in, 

They'll briefly tell; 
And if bor'd beads be maist a-wantin', 

Whar they're to sell. 

They hae a fouth o' langsyne cracks, 
'Bout stealing peats, and sic like jokes ; — 
They're just a set o' 's hearty cocks 

As e'er ye saw ; 
And never sweer their mill to rax, 

Or gie a chaw. 

For Superstition, they ne'er mind it, 
Save when in Reason's mill they grind it ; 
Then to oblivion straught they send it, 

Quite out o' sight ; — 
But philanthropy, there ye'll find it, 

In truest light 

Nae pridefu 1 wights amidst the thrang, 

To jeer, or tak a bother wrang ; 

True friendship reigns the hale night lang, 

Wi' fouth o' liquor ; 
And aye the tither canty sang 

Brings round the bicker. 



122 



ON A SUMMER'S EVENING, 

The unwearied sun from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display ; 
And publishes to every land, 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

E'er yet the rays or radiance of the sun, 
Far o'er the briny billows had gone doun, 
The moon o'erspread round in a sky serene, 
And like a goddess cheer'd the night cloud scene. 
'Twas then I felt what few I thought did feel ; 
I felt what made my pericranium reel. 
As if my brain attracted by the moon, 
Heav'd to and fro or like a wheel went round. 
Then the wayward spirit reeling in my breast, 
And brain convulsive reever of my rest ; 
Like ocean tide o'erwhelmed in the sky, 
Awak'd my piety as if God was nigh. 

Father of nature, was it thy design, 

That this untutord bosom should define ; 

Or was I doom'd with half a ray of light, 

To gaze and wonder at thy works of might. 

Lost in amazement at thy works, O God! 

The starry sky and dew-enamelPd sod ; 

O give me more than scrimp imagination, 

That I may scan the beauties of creation. 

What brings the round tear from my sair sunk e'e? 

My love of nature and my love of thee. 

Who's like to thee eternally good? 

Too little rever'd, and far less understood. 



123 



LOVELY NANCY SHEARER. 

Written iu Stevenston, upon an amiable, affable, and cleanly woman in 
dress, whose beauty, internally and externally, often brought the smile in th« 
despondent face of the author, then lamenting the sweets of his ain fireside. 

Lovely Nancy Shearer to me thou'll be dearer, 

Than else beneath the sun. 
Sweet the smiles and graces shine in angel faces, 

Such my fancy trace 

In that face o' thine. 
Winters will be dreary, summers ne'er seem cheery, 

Lass till thou be mine. 



Long may heaven befriend thee, 
Every bliss attend thee 

In thy humble bower. 
Long- may'st thou live and flourish, 
Thy beauty never perish — 
Never did nature nourish 

So fair, so fine a flower. 
Weeping-, smiling Nancy, thou shalt be my fancy, 

Till life's latest hour. 



PAISLEY PATE TO DAVIE O' DUMBLANE. 

Hey drucken Davie, 

Ho drHnken Davie, 
Fye drunken Davie, 

Why cam ye frae Dumblane. 
Ye might hae bidden there man, 

And breath'd the caller air, man, 
Where the Allan rows sae clear, 

Through a gay romantic scene. 



124 

Ye cam to our toun, 
A wee bit touzie loun ; 
But now ye're turn'd auld, 

And uncomely to see. 
The wit to you was given, 
A' comforts frae ye riven, 
Nae bliss in earth or heaven, 

Ay doited drunken ree. 

Ye laugh at State and Kirk, 
Ye're stuped, ye're a stirk, 
But mark ye're in the mirk, 

Because of Poesy. 
Ye ken right weel yoursel, 
Ye loe the whisky well ; 
But soon the mouth o" hell, 

Will be open'd for thee. 

Ye're but a stuped sot, 

Wad spend your hindmost groat ; 

I am sorry it's your lot 

To hae sic a gizen'd mou'. 
Yet neither drunk nor sober 
Will ye injure a neighbour, 
Ye're sic a civil kebar, 

Ye're social when ye're fou. 



SONG. 

Air. — " Bonny Mary Hay." 

Ye'll hae seen, bonny lass, the bright blaze o" the sun 
Shine wi' bonny gowden ray on onr landscape at noon : 



125 



And bonny lass yeVe seen when his bonny gowden 

Had sunk o'er the ocean and ended our day. 

Ye'Jl hae seen, bonny lassie, the bonny maid moon, 
I Smiling on thee frae the karry abone ; 
j And lassie ye'll hae mind when the moon had grown 
roun, 

How sweet was our bliss on the banks o' the Doon. 

; Then the waters were gilt wf a bonny siTer ray, 
! As they row'd to the ocean, and sang on their way ; 
; And ye'll mind, bonny lassie, in thy love born dream, 

When we came to the sea at the foot o' the stream, 
i And saw the white wave that by moontide was curl'd, 

And the home-bounden sail that the seamen unfurl" d ; 

When the stars were a-beaming on thy angelic eye, 

And like the lady moon, lassie, smiling on thee. 



THE PEDANTIC BODIE. 

A Dancing Master in South Kilbride. 

Air — " Camerorts got his wife again." 
Pridfu', vile, pedantic bodie, 
Plagit, vile, pedantic bodie, 
Affectations a' your study, 
Ye plagit, vile, pedantic bodie. 

What are ye ? a scrimpit creature 
In form and intellectual nature ; 
Mair conceit than common sense, 
Urcheon imp of impudence. 
Rambler like ye lose your skill, 
Like magpie gablin o'er a bowl ; 



126 

With mind like winter sky sae cloudy, 
Ye pridefu' vile pedantic body. 

Strange to that ca'd honest heart, 

Prone to act an evil part ; 

Neither fit to blush nor feel, 

Like o' likest to the deil. 

Ca' ilk truism treason, 

Close your ears on truth and reason, 

Clear your brain that's aye sae muddy, 

Ye plagit vile pedantic bodie. 

Lord man I think thy little soul, 

Is but a trifle on the whole ; 

Nae wonder that thy brain o 1 crowdie 

Maks thee an affectatious bodie. 

While in your drunken rants ye revel, 

YeVe but a sycophant uncivil, 

Wi 1 brain as dead as Vulcan's study, 

Ye pridefu' vile pedantic bodie. 

Gif nature mean'd to mak ye man, 
"Twas surely on peculiar plan. 
A bodie might gang to the moss, 
And mak as gude a ane o' dross. 
Surely nature's made a blun'er, 
In forming sic a sumphish sinner ; 
But yet ye're there wT help o' howdie, 
Ye pridefu' vile pedantic bodie. 

Altho 1 by chance ye're not a beast, 
But form of a man at least, 
Be thankfu' for your upright face, 
Altho' bereft of ilka grace. 



127 



Tho' nature seems to hae compassion, 
O'er children of oddest fashion, 
She weel may blush wi' cheeks that's ruddy, 
At her droll deed in thee poor body. 

Waes me that ever animation, 
Brought sic a cuiff into creation, 
In form of lassie or o' laddie, 
Ye pridefu' vile pedantic bodie. 
Gude kens thy dirfu' disposition 
Fits thee best for dark perdition ; 
Take him deil he's damn'd already, 
This plagit vile pedantic bodie. 



SONG. 
Air — " Up and maur them a 1 Willie" 
Let us be merry a' lads, 

Let us be merry a' ; 
We'll drink and sing till echoes ring 
Baith frae the roof and wa'. 

While men o' lore the deeps explore, 

Of nature's mystic law ; 
We'll try our art, baith head and heart, 

To catch what they let fa'. 
And should we find the gait divine, 

That men's affection's draw, 
Our minds will soar abone the sumphs, 

Wha wrangle at a flaw. 

We dinna boast o' muckle' lear, 
Our share o' that's but sma ; 



128 

Content to tell onr humble tale 

In this our humble ha\ 
Tho' fops and fools in courts and schools 

May gab wi' gentle jaw,' 
In tale or sang our mither's tongue 

Rows smoother than them a\ 

Tho' neither bent on gathering gear, 

Or throwing sic awa, 
We tak a drap our minds to cheer, 

And weet the wither'd maw. 
Round cap and stoup our little group 

Nae disaffection shaw, 
But spurn the imp wi* soul sae jimp, 

And words like teeth o' saw. 

But ye o 1 sober social turn, 

Wi* tempers ne'er athraw, 
Ye're welcome ay across the burn 

To gie our club a ca\ 
In Andrews at the burn fit, 

When we assemble a*, 
We lay the luggie to our lips, 

And flye our cares awa. 

Let us be merry a\ 

Let us be merry a'; 
We'll drink and smg till echoes ring 

Baith frae the roof and wa\ 






129 



THE MILLER O' DOON. 

I The miller o' Doon was as canty a miller, 
1 As ever was bless' d wi' a saxpence o' siller ; 
I 'Tween the mill and the kill he ever was busy, 
I And industry gied him a mind that was easy. 
He was canty and couth in his humble condition — 
i To be friendly wi 1 neebours was a 1 his ambition ; 
! And save a wee drap on a Saturday teen, 
J Nae farther the miller to drinkin 1 was gi'en. 

i This miller was kind to baith Christian and Pagan, 
| He was fond o' the kirk, but ne'er rade on its rig-gin ; 
This miller was honest in deed and in word, 
jHe was a* body's body, and nae body's lord. 

I This miller was social, this miller was free, 
|Unfeign'd was the love in his heart and his e'e ; 
iThat he had little love a' his friends will admit, 
i Yet a' bodies thought vow at his mirth and his wit. 
tFor his heart was ay free frae a' falsehood and guile, 
And in his plump features for ever a smile ; 
put when sorrowfu 1 tales made the miller to feel, 
His heart it ran o'er like the cog o' the wheel. 

This miller ne'er doubted his neebour of evil, 

And the words frae his mouth were as saft's they 

were civil ; 
There ne'er was a man mair agreeable and happy, 
When wi' cronie conven'd o'er a cordial drappie. 
When the cauld wintry showers on the landscape 

was pouring — 
When horror's dark shade on the vicious was low'ring, 
This miller's pure heart was as mild and serene, 
As the summer's still karry that smiles on the scene. 



130 






But the miller like a' ither men had his foible, 
For he went wi' the stream like the rest of the rabble ; 
He was passive to priests, he was partial to kings, 
Tho 1 counted a wisock in a ither things. 
Yet he lov'd a' his friends, and he leugh at his faes, 
And whisper'd a grace o'er his brochan and brose ; 
To the sound o 1 the happer he croon'd a bit sang, 
And this miller was blithe as the summer days lang. 

When his hair was as jet as the back of the crow, 
When his limbs were as nimble as those of the roe, 
And his cheeks like the breast o' wee Robin the raven, 
'Gainst the faes of auld Scotland this miller had striven. 
He had trode the red field when her foes were retreat- 
ing* 
He had sung of her fame when her woes were abating; 
And now tho' his locks be so thin and so hoary, 
Still his bosom exalts in his country's glory. 

. The miller was kind, &c. 



KILWINNING LASSES. 

Wandering in yon woody glade, 

Where Garnock stream sae smoothly passes, 
The sun was glinting through the shade, 

And smiling on Kilwinning lasses. 

CHORUS. 

O the fair Kilwinning lasses, 

The bonny fair Kilwinning lasses — 

Had I my youthfu 1 days to spend, 

I'd spend them 'mang Kilwinning lasses. 



131 



Wi 1 wining wyles and witching* smiles, 
They soothe your waes wi' kind caresses, 

They mak your weary warldly toils 
Seem light — the fair Kilwinning lasses. 

Like angels to the waefu 1 wight, 

They cheer his heart amidst distresses ; 

They mak the dreary wintry night 

Seem short — the fair Kilwinning lasses. 

O lovely's Garnock's siller stream, 
As to the Western shore it gushes ; 

When tinged with Sol or Luna's beam, 
But lovelier far Kilwinning lasses. 

O the fair, &c. 



ODE 
TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS, 

OUR CELEBRATED POET. 

Thy muse, O Burns ! seeks no foreign clime. 

For deeds of fame to twine his brows with bays ; 
But. finds at home whereon to build his ryhme, 
And patriot virtues sings in patriot lays. 

In days of yore the heavenly nine 
Once met the laurel to entwine — 
To grace the songsters of our isle, 
Then Ossian caught their favour' d smile ; 
Old Ossian who in ancient days 
Lighted his lamp at nature's blaze. 
Loud was their songs and sweet their lays 
In praise of Scottish minstrelsy. 






132 

Thus they in harmonious choir, 
Prais'd their favorite Bard of yore. 

Sing- on sweet bard, thy song renew, 
Laurels shall adorn thy brow, 
Heavenly muses court thy shade, 
Heavenly themes thy mind invade. 
Sing on — the nine will be thy aid, 
Cheer the heart of love-lorn maid ; 
Tune thy harp to soothe the woes 
Of widow'd dames and conquer'd foes ; 
Sublime and lofty be thy strains 
Of stalwart chiefs and gory plains, 
Whether on the fields of war, 
Or o'er the heath-clad mountains far, 
Ye sing the pleasures of the chace, 
Or glory of thy warlike race. 

But war and song bore youth away. 
And soon his locks of silver grey 
Wav"d round his harp on mountain gale, 
Sad harbinger of deadly tale. 

Now where's his tomb ye minstrels tell, 
By lonely moor or mountain dell. 
Say has his elegy been sung, 
Or has his harp e'er vet been strung ; 
Say does it vibrate on the gale 
That skims his lonely native dale : 
Or does it shake on Lowland swaird, 
To grace the song of Lowland bard ; 
Say does it ring in Ramsay's air, 
Or was it tun'd by Gray or Blair: 
Or hark ! is yon its lofty strain 



133 

That flashes from our Thomson's pen : 
Or does it vibrate a tone 
To pawky Robert Ferguson. 

Yes all these fam'd harmonious swains 

Hath touch'd it in Poetic strains. 

But hark ! how loud it swells by turns, 

When master'd with the hand of Burns. 

And mark its poesy and fire, 

When cording with his modern lyre ; 

How sweet his song of mountain dale, 

How bright he paints the sunny vale ; 

And saft his lines as simmer gale, 

When he resumes the cotter's tale ; 

And when with philosophic eye, 

He sings of heaven and starry sky; 

Far above terrestrial strain 

His numbers roll, and not in vain — 

Who like him from star to sod, 

Could describe the works of God — 

Who like Burns could define 

The nature of the human mind — 

Who like him could melt the heart — 

Who like him could joys impart. 

Ossian's laurels bloom'd anew, 

Genuine Burns on thy brow ; 

Who like him in modern days — 

Who with patriotic blaze 

Could rouse the hearts of Scottish swains 

To break the tyrant's slavish chains. 

Scotia's sons read and proclaim 
Your country's bard with loudrst fame — 
Modern songsters catch his flame, 
Sing of Burns's deathless name — ■ 






134 

Sing ye bards of Burns's merit, 
Sing of Bruce and Wallace's spirit ; 
While their memory ye prolong", 
Crown the night with drink and song ; 
And while your hearts at slavery spurns, 
Toast up Wallace, Bruce, and Burns. 



VERSES ON THE FAMOUS FIGHTING DOG 
WATTY, 

Still in the possession of Mr. Robert Kerr, Innkeeper, Cross of Paisley. 

Ilk kind o 1 stook has its ain binnin, 
Ilk burn and water its way o' rinnin, 
Sae ilka tale maun hae beginnin, 

Be 1 t e'er sae queer ; 
But telling truths there's little sin in — 

Read and ye'll hear. 

Ae day when standing at the Cross, 
Wi' cauld drap hanging at my nose, 
There was a beast abone a close 

Gied me a wink 
To dauner doun and sooth my waes 

Wi' nappy drink. 

As I had waxed auld and slee, 
I couldna help some jealousy ; 
Thought at the time that it might be 

Merely a hoax — 
For wha the deil can credit gie 

To cunning Fox. 



135 

But thirst and cauld are ill to bear, 
Sae midst my jealousy and fear, 
Reckless o 1 what might come in rear, 

I daunert doun — 
Gat comfort baith to mouth and ear, 

Frae social loon. 

For soon this social philanthrop, 
Heal'd my heart and rais'd my hope ; 
For soon by dint o' cap and stoup, 

I ceas'd frae sobbin ; 
He made me soon laugh, sing, and loup, 

This ranting Robin. 

Now Rab is nae dissembling rogue, 
Wad fellow cheat like priest incog ; 
He'd like to clear awa the fog, 

Ca'd reason's mist ; 
And glory's o*er his fav'rite dog, 

A worthy beast. 

This dreadless dog he christened Watty, 

After a Watty ance sae witty ; 

Wha waur'd his flyting wife the slutie — 

Her scolding tongue ; 
Sae this dog Watty, touzie and tawtie, 

Waur'd auld and young.* 

If s langsyne kent o'er Scotland wide, 
That ne'er a battle e'er he tried, 
But he his enemy defied, 

Through strength and skill ; 
And ground them till they hooly cry'd, 

Wi' his bane mill. 

Alluding to the Poem « Watty and Meg.' 



136 

With hero's heart and teethy jaw, 
Nane like him could badger draw — 
Soon as he laid his warlike paw 

Upon the broke, 
He fought like lion in a thraw, 

And that's nae mock. 

Now Watty's auld and grown sedate, 
And winna bite a dog or cat, 
But tent him yet if rascal rat 

Comes in his clutches, 
He'll tear its claes frae tail till throat, 

Baith arse and pouches. 

When tarries come round this docile beast, 
And yelps and puks his touzie breast, 
He never minds their freaks the least, 

But wi' his paw, 
And face as grave as ony priest, 

Says hoot gae wa. 

Let it through Kirkintilloch ring 
'Mang a' their dogs that Watty's king, 
And that his worth has now taen wing 

On spreading fame ; 
And poets has begun to sing 

His deathless name. 

He fawns on a' to friendship given, 
On man, and wife, on every living ; 
But mark him when by passion driven, 

By sumphs uncivil, 
His passion, like the rage o' heaven, 
H Wad fright the devil. 



137 

Friends when ye're cauld about the cross, 
Wi' tear on cheek and drap at nose ; 
To mak ye happy and jocose, 

And pass your jokes, 
I'd hae ye dauner doun the close, 

Siffn o 1 the Fox, 



WATTY'S GRACE. 

Thanks to my mistress and master, 
Wha gied me this gude belly plaister, 
I'm now grown auld — can fight nae mair, 
But fain wad screed a grace or prayer. 



SARAHS LAMENTATION. 

Now Sarah sat down by her fire, 

Or rather her lifeless bit spunk, 
Twa three bonny bairns sittin' by her 

A' wailing the effects o' the drink. 
There's no a bit coal in the closet, 

There's no a bit bread in the bink ; 
We neither get meat o't nor claes o't— 

The base effects o' the drink. 

My lifetime is nought but a guddle, 

I'm ay on starvation's brink ; 
But when our auldman's on the fuddle, 

He caresna fofr naething but drink. 
Our Johnny, the stupid auld sot, 

He now loes the whisky sae weel, 
For a drap o't he'd gie his last groat, 

Tho' a' things should gang to the deil. 



138 

Just gie him drink, drink, 

Lord nor he was drown'd in drink ; 
For ye'd think when he's doited and dry, 

He wad rin to Ruglen for drink. 
When married we had a wee stock 

O' gear, aDd siller to clink ; 
But a' gaid to auld Lucky B — k : 

Waes me for that ruinous drink. 

And o' it's a ruinous drink, 

it's a ruefu' drink, 
I wonder in a 1 God's warld, 

What dings men bodies to drink. 
It's surely a weakness in man, 

In their chain o* misfortunes a link ; 
Yet bodies should shun if they can 

The infatuation o' drink. 

Just when 1 think he's reforming, 
As he's been a while frae the drink, 

He hame frae the warehouse comes storming, 
I, just like a madman wi' drink: 

And then he begins wi' his swearing, 

1 think that all round me will sink ; 
Fain wad I gang out o' his hearing, 

Giff I could be wanted a blink. 

As sure as my name it is Sarah, 

I'll e'en gang and lea him I think; 
Deil nor they had perish'd wi' Pharoah 

Wha first contriv'd \o brew drink. 
Our Johnny lies down to sleep, 

But sleep he canna a wink ; 
He rows, and tumbles, and grumbles : 

The base effects o' the drink. 



139 

Half sleeping he speaks to himsell, 

If chance he dovers a blink, 
Then starting- up, thinks he's in h— 11 — 

The evils created by drink ! 
When done with these fits o' his folly, 

And gravely beginning- to think, 
He turns sae hard and sae holy, 

Ye'd think nae mair he'd tak drink. 

But round comes his auld drouthy quorum, 

While some fly ting wifie they jink; 
He's affto the jug and the jorum, 

An' their hale week to drink. 
Jf ever on earth was a h— 11, 

Or pain in the bosoms that think, 
There's none who more feel it themsells, 

Than delirious dribblers in drink. 

It's ae week starve and drink, 

Another week work and think ; 
Man ruins his soul and body, 

All by that bewitching drink. 
For oh ! it's a dolefu' drink, 

Oh ! it's a bainfu* drink : 
A* body and mind, oh ! heavens, 

Prematurely d — d wi' drink. 



FRAGMENT. 

Tir'd wi' dribbling and drinking, 
Fash'd wi' pains that's ill to dree ; 

Grown sedate through sober thinking 
Farewell spurious barley bree. 



140 

THE MAID O* WALKINSHAW. 

Air — The Lass o 1 Ballochmyle. 

As through the garden walks I rove, 

How dear to me it's beauties a' ; 
But dearer far the lass I love, 

The worthy maid o 1 Walkinshaw. 
Let other bards exulting sing, 

The deeds o' heroes now awa ; 
But T will make the plantin's ring, 

In praise of her of Walkinshaw. 

O saw ye but her skin so fair — 

As white's the whitest down, 
And oh ! her locks o' lovely hair 

Are like the radiance of the sun. 
She's priz'd by men o' ilk degree, 

'Tho void of artificial shaw ; 
For lords and earls with envious e'e, 

Gaze on the maid of Walkinshaw. 

O saw ye her angelic een, 

That sparkle 'neath her graceful brow ; 
And oh ! her bonny cheeks, I ween, 

Are like twa roses bath'd wi* dew ; 
O wad the fates for ance be kind, 

Nor turn on me with backward thraw ; 
Gie me the lassie to my mind, 

The lovely maid of Walkinshaw. 

In ev'ry word she has a wyle, 

Would frae a sage affection draw ; 

And in her features there's a smile, 
That steals the rustic's heart awa- 






141 

And should she leave these leafy bowers, 
As waes my heart she will awa : 

The trees may wither, and the flowers — 
I'll seek the maid o 1 Walkinshaw. 



DROLL WILL DUNBAR. 

Droll Will Dunbar was a rhymer they say, 
Whas hurdies were happit wi' gude howden grey, 
feome ca'd him a stirk, ithers ca'd him a star — 
But a' bodies kent him by droll Will Dunbar. 
^ho 1 Willie was comely, his manners were odd, 

rew aulder and dafter like whalps o' the tod ; 

ut wha in a satire wad wage wV him war — 
ere sure to be licket by droll Will Dunbar. 



Cuplets, treeplets, Willie Dunbar, 
Treeplets, cuplets, Willie Dunbar, 
Jingle awa without j untile or jaur, 
Ay sleeket and witty was droll Will Dunbar. 

To mak a bit sonnet cost Willie nae fash, 
For his verses cam readier to him than the cash? 
Whene'er he took baud o' the scrunt o 1 a pen, 
Lines lampin like maukins cam doun frae his brain. 
When a lilt he fell tilPt, as if nature he law'd, 
He order 1 d his muse to awake for a jade ; 
Then red wud for fame like a bold British tar, 
In raptures she sang wi 1 her droll Willie Dunbar. 

'Tis said that his fancy was ever in flight, 

In the shine of the day and the shade of the night ; 



142 

And like a' ither rhymers, as bodies remark, 
He was lazy at naething but prayers and wark. 
Willie lo'ed a bit spark o 1 the stark usquebey, 
It put his sad heart in a happier key, 
For he thocht that his roundels cam readier far, 
When hauf capernuitie, this Willie Dunbar. 

Sometimes when he spoke ye wad thocht him a clown 
As vulgar as any in kintry or town ; 
Other times ye wad thocht by his style sae complete, 
He had soar'd like a lark frae Gamalial's feet. 
This moment and Willie was modest and mild, 
But sting* him like Boreas his raging was wild ; 
Ye wad thocht in a court he might done for a scar 
To our gentlemen liars, this droll Will Dunbar. 

Droll Will Dunbar he could philosophize, 
Could measure the karry, the earth, and the seas ; 
Nae histfry, nor myst'ry, but Willie could scan, 
Bamboozled wi' nought but the roguery o' man. 
Will was friendly to man yet was jimp in belief, 
For he watched their drift as he watched a thief, 
And when they in their reveries began for to jaur, 
That was balm to the bosom of droll Will Dunbar. 

Of astronomy Will had a kind o 1 a nack, 
The height o* the stars he could tell ye correct, 
The number of planets, their distance, and whar 
They saiPd round the sun on their aerial car. 
He could pointed ye out by the system in vogue, 
As clear as a glutton could empty a cog; 
And how a roun* moon made a daft body waur, 
Could be clearly described by droll Will Dunbar. 



143 

•Will could tell ye o 1 tykes wha had travell'd sae far, 
jThat they saw a new heaven and a new set o' stars ; 
(They doubted a wee if it was the same moon, 
But wad freely gie aith it was roun like our ain. 
Will could tell ye o 1 seamen who sailed sae far north, 
That gride sooth they ran out o 1 baith water and earth; 
A' had grown into ice by the force o 1 the air — 
That's waur yet than Scotland, quoth Willie Dunbar. 

[That Willie had merits his friends a 1 confess'd, 
rrho' his poverty hid them like gowd in a kist; 
IBut Willie had ay a bit glimpse of a hope, 
[And nae langer at hame the rhymer wad stop. 
He gaed into Auld Reekie to shew what he wrote, 
And thus spake the spenticle gentry I wot, 
r Man ye're liker a stirk than a poetic star," 
pVIaist dumfunert the feelings o 1 droll Willie Dunbar. 
Cuplets, treeplets, &c. 

A FRAGMENT. 

There liv'd a fair lass down yonder green how, 

Near to yon bonny green wood ; 
A clear mountain stream by her cottage did row, 

As pure as the heart that within her did glow — 
But her lover was calous and rude. 

She trusted her love to this faithless swain, 

Who often to her had made vows ; 
Unconstant and false soon she ceas'd him to charm, 
: And soon from his eyes had she caught that alarm; 
That time had her passion subdued. 

|She thought on the sweets of a former love, 
i Whom once she had used with disdain ; 
HThe blush ot the rose on her cheeks grew pale, 
And sad in the woodland she told the sad tale — 
As its murmurs joins in her strain. 



•J 44 



EPIGRAMS. 

Rab Bonner, Rab Bonner, 
Is nae saint nor sinner, 

But in the intermediate space ; 
Giff he gets na to heaven, 
My conscience is riven, 

For the Lord my God's gien him grace. 



Johnny Andrews pu'ing lead, 

Industrious wi" rhyming head ; 
Johnny Andrews can gie light 

With wit amidst the cloud o" night. 
Johnny Andrews is sit- chiel, 

Revere's his God, and fears the deil : 
Manufacturers in your needs, 

Buy frae J ohnny Andrews leads. 



Matthew Comb's now awa, 
Matthew Comb's now awa — 
Wha will we get to fart and blaw? 
Since Matthew Comb's now awa. 

Matthew was an artizan, 
Could mak machine wi" ony man ; 
And tho 1 a dinsome drucken devil, 
He was ingenious, social, civil. 



145 

ALEXANDER WILSON'S ELEGY. 

Recited at his Anniversary of 1814. 

A : ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' you wha live by crambo clink, 
A' you wha live and ever think. 

Come mourn wi' me.. BURNS. 

Now let ilk bard on Scotland's plains 
Pour forth his grief in plaintive strains, 
Tell Renfrew's many frugal swains 

This waefu' tale, 
Till it ring in ilk sangster's brains, 

O'er muir and dale. 

Ye murmuring streams the tale begin, 
Ye foaming floods o' Ca'der glen, 
As o'er the rocks ye mak a din, 

Wi' dolefu' dreed, 
Re-echo through your woody den, 

That Wilson's dead. 

Ye fiddlers a' your mutes put on, 

And play a spring in eerie tone, 

And langlins mak your notes to groan 

Wi 1 waefu' screed — 
While I in choir will cry ochon, 

Since Wilson's dead. 

Nae mair he'll sing where Cartha flows, 
Nor in sweet rhyme his mind disclose — 
Nae mair he'll praise young Damon's rose, 

Or gowan bed ; 
Death's put an end to all his waes, 

For now he's dead. 

10 



146 

Nae mair on bless' d Columba's shore, 
He'll nature's various works explore — 
Nae mair he'll in her wonder's pore ; 

But this rcmeid, 
His native rhyme in fame we'll soar, 

Tho*' he be dead. 

How pawkily he tells his crack, 
When he describes poor Rab's mistak, 
And how the Ram dang doun his pack 

Aff the brae head, 
When he for gowden bits did rake — 

That now is dead. 



And mark what skill doth guide his pen, 
Whene'er he speaks o' hill or glen ; 
And yon smooth story 'bout the wren 

His fame will spread, 
Tho* he were a full cent'ry gane — 

That now is dead. 

He's sae sublime frae en to en', 
That I'm unfit his praise to pen ; 
But h — dsake let Ebie Picken ken 

That he's awa, 
That he may in an abler strain, 

His picture draw. 

But since his earthly days are done, 
Nae mair on his sweet muse to croon, 
We hope that far beyond the moon 

His soul's at rest : 
Where he will join some sacred tune 

Amang the bless'd. 



147 



AN ADDRESS TO FAME. 



■ 

I 

Hi 
Again, my brains, your aid I claim, 

Or madam muse, if that's your name, 

Nae vague pretensions that you're lame, 

Or mim o' mouth, 
But seek the aid o' Madam Fame 

To publish truth. 

Breath nae sedition that brings skaith, 
Nae surly satire that breed's wrath, 
Nae hum drum lines 'bout hill or heath, 

Sic like's no wanted, 
It's a" to speak o' the new claith 

That's been invented. 



So let J ock Barley render null, 
A' that perplex my heart or scull, 
Let fancy bright unfetter'd roll 

From warly care, 
And calm serenity o' soul 

Be a' my prayer. 

Now in the mirror o' my brain, 
I see ideas a varied train, 
A' anxious as when in a den 

's the lurking thief, 
Impatient till my inky pen, 

Gie's them relief. 

Twas but yestreen I did regale 
My muse wi' usquebee and ale, 
She cock'd her crest and wagg'd her tail- 
Then rhyming bent, 



148 

She threw the verses aff like hail, 
To my content. 

But hooly quo' T, and tent mishanter, 
When ye flee aff at trot or canter, 
'Tho roan the bicker in a banter 

Ye whyles are loudest ; 
For Guidsake dinna be a vaunter, 

But ay be modest. 

Yet headstrong- bent on her career, 

An r richt conceity in her air, 

She brak the branks o" slavish care, 

Nor would she tame, 
But geck'd and seem'd to speak witli leer 

To Madam Fame. 

Now flaunting Fame I do ye warn, 

To flinch yer ilka needfu 1 turn, 

An 1 whether ye bawl thro' brass or horn, 

Nae time to tyne, 
But roar till heaven in return 

In echoes join. 

It's no a fullsome flatt'ring- ode 

O 1 warrior's deeds, in fields o' blood, 

Nae dolefu' dirge to mark the sod 

Wliar hero lies, 
But verses barely to explode 

Wit o 1 the wise. 

My muse tho' ye neglect her lays, 
She'll aiblins yet see better days ; 



149 

I ken ye geek to gie her praise 

Because she's humble, 

Or is't the rhymer, in his ways 
So apt to stumble. 

Ye needna dod nor tak the drunt, 
Affecting* shy wi' leuk asklent, 
Tho' he soud be a blundering blunt 

Wha maks request, 
Toots, tak ye that as nae affront, 

But do yer best. 

So Fame the stress by you be borne, 
To sound yer sonsiest muckle horn, 
In ev'ry Ian' whar men sojourn 

From east to wast, 
Till savages in lands far lorn 

Shall hear yer blast. 

An' whilst in sound an' word ye scan 
The wond'rous feats achiev'd by man ; 
An' whilst ye chaunt in accents gran' 

'Bout things terrestrial, 
Sing man's inventions in the tone 

Of notes celestial. 



But chiefly, Fame, ye'll mind to tell, 
Yea whether hoarse or shrill ye yell, 
But min' to mak' yer notes to swell, 

Nor wind be saving — 
But tell them, Paisley bears the bell 

In fancy weaving 



15Q 

Let auld Kilmarnock do her best, 
In point o 1 worth to stan* the test ; 
Let fam'd Dunfermline cock her crest 

An' crously craw, 
But Paisley in her beauties drest, 

Eclipses a\ 

Nor spare, O Fame ! to tell them weel, 
Till thro' their heads ye mak it reel, 
South gie it mouth wi* words agile, 

Should ye yer jaw break, 
Of the invention o* Chenille, 

That beauteous fabric. 

While Indian artists brags and bawls, 
While vaunt the Flemings and the Gauls, 
J true 'twad puzzle a" their culls 

Wi 1 a their skill, 
To fabricate such lovely shawls, 

As th' Chenille. 

The weavers now are curious bodies, 
"Tween plots, & plans, & freaks, & studies, 
Xae langer pleas'd wr checked duddies, 

Or muslins plain, 
Are weaving what might please a Goddess, 

Let be a Queen. 

It's strange to tell their fligmagaries, 
Their patent netts and catgut queries, 
Wi* levers and weights, gaun tapsalteerie 

In counterpoise ; 
Twad drive a ploughman loun delerious. 

To ken their use. 



151 



An' then sae mony odds and en's, 

Tween lings, & strings, & sticks, & stanes, 

'Twad tak an Archemedie's brains 

Ye'd think to count them — 
It's wonnerfu' how the bodies kens 

The way to mount them. 

'Tween beads, & broads, & leads, & mails, 
'Tween horl boxes, necks, and tails, 
And wonnerfu'! ha'f a score o 1 spools, 

Wi» dififrent weft, 
It's just eneugh to ding- us chiels' 

Ca'd rhymers daft. 

'Twad be presumptive sure in me, 

To speak o 1 art, or lessons gie ; 

Or tell the wonnerous chang-e that be 

Frae stock an 1 horl ; 
I micht as well pretend to flee 

T' the tither worl. 

Yet M y's one as story tells, 

An 1 ane ca'd S 1 that excels, 

An 1 the inventor o 1 Chenilles 

Wha's name's B — ch — n, 
Three just as droll lang- headit chiels, 

'S e'er rul'd in Lon'on. 

They can describe wi' souple jaws, 
The weaver's trantlums, nig-s, and naws, 
Each various CxTect an' cause 

They can explain ; 
And draught and cording s in a mass 

Doth store their brain. 



152 






Forbye this heterogeneous few ; 
WeVe mony a chiel wV pithy pow, 
Wha we may figuratively view 

As loom physicians, 
VVha's wonnerous warks wad mak' ye true, 

They were magicians, * 

There's A — m sae active at our shopwark. 
In doctering our draughts an 1 doupwark, 
Wha jinks about his nott an loopwark 

J ust like an eel, 
Making our mounting, tail and tapwark 

To operate weel. 

This birkie bodie can wi* speed, 
Temper yer ilka thrum and thread ; 
Yea, whither they wimple thro' a head, 

Or thro' a mail ; 
Likewise the way yer to proceed 

To keep them hale. 

And ane wha lang we'll mourn the loss — 
Oh Death ! thou warst o" human woes, 
Thou be"t to grasp at Jamie Cross 

At which we grieve ; 
But yet while Fame her trumpet blows, 

Hell ever live, 

And'ane (tho' varying from my course) 
Auld Paisley r mangt thy choicest flower* , 
Wilson,* of energetic powers, 

Enrich thy name, 
For while sun, moon, and earth endures, 

He'll live in fame. 

• Wilson, the American OrnitholopaV 



153 

Paisley thy genuine sons shall cause, 
The nations round to sound thy praise, 
Till like the brightest star thou'lt blaze 

In future hist'ry, 
And heaven shall thunder doun applause 

On thy industry. 

Now I by manner o' degression, 
Must hint at some in higher station, 
Wha gied their warmest approbation, 

To the Chenille ; 
Especially ane wha's exaltation 

Doth please sae weel. 

And that is philanthropise R — b, 

Sae smooth o* heart, tho" 1 rough o" gp.b ; 

Soon as he saw the curious wab 

He gaz'd wi' wonner ; 
And said it was a genuine job 

Upon his honour. 

Now R-b-n's nae dissembling brither, 
That swerve's frae truth to please anither ; 
His sentiments without a swither, 

He doth declare ; 
Be't gentle or be't-semple either 

Whate'er they are, 

R-b's worth continued him in power, 
The idol o 1 baith rich and poor : 
He took the reigns in evil hour 

Of government : 
But soon did mitigate the roar 

Of discontent. 



154 

When idle bodies were gaun gite, 
Wi' duddy claes and hungry kyte, 
Girnin vvr shagreen and spite, 

Their lack o" brose ; 
R-b strove to turn a' matters right, 

And soothe their woes. 

But Madam Muse tent and beware ; 
Nor speak o* muckle folk sae fair ; 
Wha kens he'll think yer lines a slur 

Upon his name ; 
Just leave the worthy to the care 

O' Madam Fame. 

Sae now that sma degression done, 
He* friendly patronized the loun,t 
To some great men in Embro* toun 

Wi' knowledge hoordit, 
Wha in the wark great merit found, 

And him rewarded. 

Hark ! Embro, Scotland's fav'rite city ; 
A humble bard pretends to greet thee — 
The humbler sure, the bigger pity, 

Wad thee address: 
But done wi* warm heart, auld Reekie 

Ye'll grudge the less. 

All hail ! thou sanctuary o* learning, 
Thy men o* wit and deep discerning; 
And may thy laurels thee adorning, 

Remain for ay ; 
As fresh as ttowrets in a morning 
O" rosy May. 

'The Philanthropist. f The Inventor of GfaemlU- 



155 



Lang- may auld Scotland be vauntie, 
O'er thee and a" her sons sae dainty, 
Making invaders to repent ay, 

Wha seek her shores ; 
And lang may trade and commerce plenty, 

Enrich her stores. 



THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. 

When man first sprung frae mither clay, 
He couldna read the A, B, C ; 
Nor did he ken 'tween you and me, 

That he had sic discerning; 
But mither Nature, see them now, 
They'll mak your ladyship think vow ; 
Yell ferly at your sons I trow, 

They're o'er the lugs in learning. 

Leeze me on my Grannie's rock, 
With whilk my pow got mony a knock 
When frae the school J strave to jouk, 

Back frae the A, B, C, man. 
And leeze me on the harn pan, 
Which God hath given to mortal man, 
That he might Nature's beauties scan 

On earth and in the sea, man. 

Favouring our intellect and mind, 
Father of Nature thou'st been kind, 
Thou surely has our race designed 
As ornaments in Nature, 



156 

And folk maun a' allow its kittle, 
"Twill try a minor Bardie's mettle, 
To bring: out great thing's out o' little, 
Since man's first animation. 



What lear cou'd our auld gutcher hae, 
The world was young* and sae was he, 
And nought but meek ey'd modesty, 

Shin'd on his youthfu* feature. 
"Twas sun and moon that cheer* d the lift, 
First rous'd his sordid mind a-titt, 
And sent his intellects adrift, 

To muse upon Auld Nature. 



Then out o' nature sprung up art, 
For man set to wi' head and heart, 
And learned knowledge part by part, 

Like ither new beginners. 
They first began by slow degrees, 
In snodding gardens, fields, and trees, 
Till their industry like the bees' 

Has caus'd them to work wonders. 



Wha kens when first they form'd a cart, 
O 1 saws and axes they were short, 
That it was ane o 1 rudest sort, 

We canna help allowing. 
And wha kens but the prentice chiels. 
Were pleas* d wi 1 carts without the wheels, 
And pouterd lang wi' spades and shules, 

Before they try'd the plowing. 



15' 



Through time our daddies fornrd the plow, 
With carts and ears on wheels to row, 
Gat owsen whilk the burden drew, 

And seem'd wi 1 sic contented. 
Our greatest prophets couldna tell, 
Wi 1 nae beasts, carts wad rin themsel, 
Or bear that which would them impel, 

Yet sic has been invented. 



For weel I wat I thought yestreen, 
Some glaumery had come o'er my e'en ; 
J saw a carraige rin its lane, 

And fient a beast was drawing'! 
I stood and glowr'd like ane possessed ; 
Saw nocht to draw or nocht to press't — 
But they told me 'twas a boiling kist, 

That round the wheels was ca'in«-. 



For there were many gigs and wheels, 
That birr'd and whirr'd like rocks and reels ; 
And even the langest headed chiels, 

Thought vow at the construction. 
A gowk stood wondering and admirin't, — 
It's surely meikle they require in't — 
If I'm no wrang I think there's fire in't. 

He said wi' grave reflection. 



Syne I swore by huik or cruik, 

I'd form a pamphlet or buik 

'Bout him wha did this thing construe", 

That gie's men's minds confusion. 



J 58 

I gaz T d and glowr'd wi" mind in dark, 
Thocht it some strange mysterious wark, 
And swore it was a living ark, 

Some witchcraft and delusion. 



Tumphie's in auld times didna dream 
That carraiges wad rin wi* steam, 
Or boaties paddle in the stream, 

Just in the face o 1 Boreas. 
Now wadna't be a noble scheme 
To drive the wheels o* state by steam, 
And see their gudgeons ^weel la trim, . 

Like spindrift row before us. 



Then Russell baith at hame and far, 
Wad beam as brighfs the brightest star. 
And hurl in fame's triumphant carr, 

For ever meritorious. 
Then a* the world as weel as he, 
Wha profits by the A, B, C, 
Wad join in song along wi" me, 

O'er Russell's deeds most glorious. 



SONG. 

Ance Bacchus in a frolic frae heaven cam doun, 
And fixed his residence in Paisley town, 

They were a" noddin, nid, nid, noddin, 
They were a* noddin fou at e'en. 



159 

The reason that he gied for residing' there, 
Was, the men were so social, the women so fair, 
They were a' noddin, &c. 

'Tvvas there in one Smith's on a Saturday at e'en, 

We met the wale o' cronies that e'er did convene, 

They were a* nodcUn, &c. 

j He said he had been at a' nooks o' the earth, 
But ne'er had seen their equal for harmony and mirth, 
They were a' noddin, &c. 

Tho' orderly, they scorn'd ilka vain kind of form, 
Nor did they cramp their glee with o'er meikle 
decorum, 

They were a' noddin, &c. 

iThey were nane of them sage, nor nane foolish gay, 
jBut their leal hearts were happit wi gude howden 
grey, 

They were a' noddin, &c. 

They were nane o' them careless, nor burthen'd wi' 

care, 
But gloried in cheering a wretch in despair, 

They were a' noddin, &c. 

Nae dissemblers were they with the false double heart, 
But proud to act up to a true honest part, 

They were a' noddin, &c. 

There was nae politicians to roar and debate, 
There was nae fractious fellows to frown or to fret, 
They were a' noddin, &c. 



160 



There was nane o' them gien to the hoarding of pelf. 
And as few o* them wasters, destroyers of wealth. 
They were a' noddin, &c. 

There was musical singers wha sang by the notes, 
And comical singers with sparks in their throats. 
They were a' noddin, &e. 

And there was a swatch of that prodigal crew, 
Wha rhyme to their ruin, and drink till they're fcra, 
They were a' noddin, &e. 

There were lovers of poetry, and lovers of prose, 
And lovers o' maut, and they sat a' jocose, 

Thev were a' noddin, Ac. 



Since a poor body's riches in this world is health, 
Here s wishing us lang in possession o' sic wealth. 

They were a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin, 
Thev were a' noddin fou at e'en. 






EPIGRAM. 

Tommy Snek, Tommy Snek, 
When the world gangs to wreck, 

And sinners are sunk for their Bias, 
1 hope that Auld Nick, 
1 n warmest respect, 

Will ne'er throw aspor^e on thy shins. 



161 



THE CRIPPLE FLEA. 

The cripple flea that J anet lost, 
The cunning- flea that Janet lost; 

The warld wadna pay the cost 
O' the cripple flea that Janet lost. 

I couldna understand the kimmer, 
Aye grudging at the heat o' simmer : 
But then she wail'd a wicked wight 
That had disturb'd her o'er the night. 
I listen'd till I heard the sooth o't, 
And durstna but believe the truth o't ; 
But mony a hech ! and howe ! it cost — 
The criple flea that Janet lost. 

She wonder'd ay in a' the earth, 
What gied sic fashous trash their birth ; 
Or how the deil it was their nature, 
To bite a bulky human creature : 
She marvell'd meikle if Madam Puss, 
Had brought sic vermin to the house, 
To rob her of her needfu 1 rest — 
The cripple flea that Janet lost. 

For first this fashous little flea, 
Had lighted whar her brawn should be ; 
Travers'd her weary limbs a wee, 
Whyles bit her ankle, whyles her knee ; 
Sometimes it crap, sometimes it lap, 
Whyles thro' a slap, whyles up a gap : 
Sair sair the trifle had her toss'd — 
The cripple flea that J anet lost. 
11 



162 

Then headward wandering on its way, 
It tarried whar I darna say ; 
Altho' at first it was new-fangled, 
At last it fand itsel' entangled. 
But there it ate or drank a while, 
Till Janet she grew raging wild — 
Ay dreading it wad big a nest — 
The cripple flea that Janet lost. 

Then o'er her belly till her bossie, 
Wherein it canty was and cozie ; 
For there it feasted, lap, and flang, 
And wha kens but the creature sang. 
With aye the ither leap or span, 
Jinking o' Janef s bizzie hand, 
Till forc'd at last to change its boost — 
The cripple flea that Janet lest. 

At length the thing ga"ed up to scug, 
In a bit lirk behind her lug, 
Where Janet plac'd on it her thumb, 
And fairly had decreed its doom. 
She gied her thumb a wee bit wum'le, 
Thinking its senses she wad stum'le ; 
But it was wee and easy mi.ss"d — 
The cripple flea that Janet lost. 

Tho" J anet tenty was and waury, 
The frighted flea was in a hurry ; 
For it got all' without a jokim, 
Wi' ae leg hale, anither broken. 
For turning round her meikle hand, 
To gie her linger mair command, 
It joukit and jumpit till a post — 
The criple flea that Janet lost. 



163 



VERSES ON WILLIAM EDDISON. 

A man whom the author admired, and every man who knew him esteemed. 

Of a witty aiild man I will speak o' the while, 
^VVha in face o' the sun now has ceased to smile; 
| Save the star on his breast that ne'er ceased to glow, 
(His auld mortal frame 's in the cauld earth below. 



(But O had ye heard him, with old hero heart, 
'Ye'd smil'd at the tales that his tongue did impart ; 
JFor his brain was so bright, and his wit cam so free, 
Me was standard to friendship, and centre o* glee. 



But in turning a corner, new things to relate, 
My stupid auld muse often lurks o' the gait, 
But gangs staumering about like a staumeral gowk, 
Till her head it plays dunt on some critical rock. 



ut now to unfold her bit dirlin o" drift, 
That hath caus'd the auld matron in rhyme for to rift, 
Jhe wad cantily sing o' a couthy auld carle, 
Wha, was lov'd and admired, but now lost to the 
world. 



iftT this auld carle's laugh, his crack, and his sang, 
Ae wallow 1 d in mirth for the winter night lang ; 
lis stories and songs were sae auld and sae odd, 
life wad thocht thev'd been fram'd in the kingdom o' 
Nod. 



164 



ating — 



Or sung in the ark when auld Noah was float 
When the sinners were drown'd, and their death was 

forgotten ; 
Full often this carle has set us a laughin, 
*Tween the fire and his pipe, 'tween the pipe and his 

spleuchan. 

Tho' his auld pipe o' nature was rustic and auld, 
Still his bosom beneath was ay cheery and bauld ; 
This carle could rairdet a sang wi' the youngest, 
And stormM about strength wr the meikle and 
strongest 

When his cronies around him wad hae his best sang, 
Then to Auld Janet Baird he got up in a bang ; 
For his sangs were sae auld, and sae langsyne wrote, 
That the half o* the world sic songs had forgot. 

In the bottomless boat we maun own there was mirth 

in't, 
When the twa fly ting wifies were crossing the Firtli 

in't ; 
Had ye seen the auld hash how he notched and he 

smird, 
When he sung o' the Meg that was nature's best 

child. 

When he sang Robin Barbour wi' his odd kind o* 

nack, 
He aft made us laugh till our hurdies did crack ; 
But when stanes in our aprons in raptures he rou'd, 
Ye wad thocht baith the kebars and company encor'd. 






165 

Willie Edie dwelt by Forth, 

A Firth heard o' by ilka body ; 
Willie had a stream o' mirth, 

Wad drawn a glutton frae his crowdie. 
Frae Willie's youth he was a chiel 

Fam'd for aye for being- friendly ; 
Gif e'er he did a neebour ill, 

I'll swear he didna do't design'dly. 



SONG. 

Air — " The boatie rorvsfu? weeV' 

When our gudeman comes hame at e'en, 

Frae plowing o' the soil, 
There's ae thing ay delights my ee — 

His kind and couthie smile. 
And should he come when crowdie time, 

Or quating time draws on, 
Our bairns maun todlin meet wi 1 him 

A bitoek west the loan. 



They tell to him their stories a", 

Wi 1 hearts sae kind and leal, — 
His ilka care flies far awa, 

A' save the family's weel. 
He marks the auld anes failings a', 

Wi' kind and tenty ee ; 
The young lispin out dada, 

He dandles on his knee. 



166 

And when the bairnie fretftr mourns, 

He presses't to his breast, 
Syne carelessly a cronach croons, 

To lull the babe to rest. 
Nae words o" guile can sic impart 

To damp his hamely glee ; 
But language frae the leal young heart, 

Speaks love in ilka ee. 

The rambler may wi' haughty vaunt 

Our settle' d life deride; 
The sage can tell maist comforts haunt 

A body's ain fireside. 
Ambition braves baith waves and wind, 

In search o' blessings great ; 
But the plowman has mair peace o* mind 

Than a* the lords o' state. 



VERSES ON AN INTIMATE ACQUAINT- 
ANCE OF THE AUTHORS. 

Authors aie partial to their wits, 'tis true, 

But aTe not criticsjto their judgement too.— POPE. 

Be hooly wine for a time — 
Since I'm half-fu I now maun rhyme. 
I hear in my hams hurly burly, 
And L — d my head rins tirly whirly. 
For when I'm in my barley hoods, 
Ye ken I'm in my rhyming moods ; 
My plebean heart's then in commotion, 
Like ship upon convulsive ocean — 



I 



167 



Like bark before the storm driven, 
When stony hearts do think on heaven— 
When elements above us shake,. 
And even philosophers' hearts do quake. 



Let all the elements combine — 
Still of a friend these lines I'll twine, 
Till known by men and gods above, 
The love I bear to ane ca'd Love. 

But what's, my love, my rhyming blether ? 

My heart, my love, is in a tether ; 

For in my brains there's sic a vacum, 

I canna mump thy merits, Ma'com. 

I winna ca' thee pest pedantic, 

In thy sober times o'er frantic ; 

Nor hypocritically religious, 

By heavens ! that wad be litigious. 

I wadna ca' thee self-conceited, 

Least at me thou turns fretted ; 

Nor laughify your orthography, 

In case your Highland heart gets huffy. 

But I will warn ye to be waury, 

Otherwise by a' below the karry ; 

Least by dint o* scruntic pen, 

I'll prove some rhymin men are men ; 

And fright ye till ye sneak and snool, 

Cry, hooly, will ye, and sing dool. 

Thou manna criticise my rhymes, 
Nor mention drink among my crimes, 



168 



Or by the gods abone the rig-gin, 

I'll send ye doun to Satan's biggin. 

Syne when your lordship's sank in horn 

I'll get some peace to write in error, 

When thou'll be drinking brimstone grav ie, 

For ca'ing me Davie, drunken Davie ; 

Forby ye ca' me stupid stirk, 

Because I bouf at bigget kirk. 

As collie dogs bark at the moon, 

Tho' never at thee our god, O sun. 

But anger in my mind abating, 

Yonr further crimes 1*11 cease relating ; 

Unless again in words I staumer, 

Your criticisms maks me yaumer ; 

Yet Ma'com after my harangues, 

My calous words in calishangs, 

I'll praise thee friend of fellow-man, 

While I can write or weild a pen ; 

And pray for health frae gods above, 

And lang life to my friend ca'd Love. 



EPISTLE TO A YOUTH. 

Weel done, my artless youthfu" laddie, 
Auld farrant wight I maist had <ad thee- 
Thy muse, tho' but a tender lady, 

May yet grow strong, — 
Then thee, a credit to thy daddie, 

Mav shine in song. 



Tho" stranger I to literature, 

Or writing what's sublime and pure- 



169 

E'en tko 1 the fates on me look sour, 
And doufs niy brain, 

To please me in a leisure hour, 
I lift the pen. 

It's no your wee bit flattering' letter, 
Which rous'd sae weel my printed matter ; 
No, tho 1 it had been keenest satire, 

And scurlous bauld ; 
But just I think yell mak a better, 

When ye grow auld. 

Thy thoughts, tho* they be something tame, 
Thy juvenile lines a thoughtie lame, 
Thou needna o' sic like think shame — 

Ane o thy age ; 
Since thou thro* time may chance to claim 

A brighter page. 

But Rab, pursue writing and reading, 
Seek knowledge, which we a are needing-, 
Seek comrades o' modest breeding, 

And sound o' heart — 
But abone a' mind meat and cleading, 

In the first part. 

In making lines to suit your use, 
Study to be correct and nice — 
Mind dinna lightlv my advice, 

Tho' fool o' forty ; 
Or mind by a' beneath the skies, 

Davie 'ill sort ye. 



170 



JACOBUS LURKMAN. 

Ye'll hae heard o' ane Lurkni; 

Jacobus Lurkman, 
That unfeeling- cuif of eccentric behaviour ; 

Tho" he struts like a stork, 

He's the meanest wee cork 
That ever attempt to impose on a weaver. 

Some say that his whole trade 

Consists in the bowl trade, 
I ferry giff sic an assertion be true, man : 

Giff that be the case, 

O great's the disgrace — 
He'll be ranked along with the meanest of human 

When he tak'st in his noddle 

To fa" on the fuddle, 
He rins to some hovel "mang whores and deceivers; 

Or carouses wi" fellows 

That's careless and calous, 
Nae thought on the wants o' his wark-worn 
weavers ; 

The poor bodies may rin, 

They may hing, the may dring - , 
And what's their reward should they chance for to 
find him ; 

Like gude company's refuse, 

He can swear and abuse, 
But the devil a mouthfu' o' reason's within him. 

When this cash-hunting- man, 
On his humbug-gin" plan, 
Has gone, as he says, for to &erve the poor 
wretches, 



171 



While the strong anes get notes, 
'Tis the weaker anes lots, 
To be ca'd by the names o' baith beggars and 
bitches ; 
Your plaid is not selling — 
Ye'll not get one shilling — 
He'll girn ye a laugh, he'll swear and he'll damn, 
man ; 
While his arm he is scratching, 
He swears it's fair bitching, 
Till poor bodies hae aft to gang hame as they cam, 
man. 

Then he strides to his books, 

And he saunters and looks — 
In ae hand a piece beef, in the tither a tatie ; 

Then some creesh frae the meat 

Fa's down on the sheet, 
Which render his counts sae lamentable fauty. 

Ye're excessive this, 

Ye're excessive that, 
Ye're excessive thin, ye're excessive for nicking ; 

I will give you no cash, 

Says the merciless hash, 
But get out o' the door, or I'll give you a kicking. 

Then he'll scuffle to shuffle, 

And rive aff a ruffle, 
And whyles from a coat he will draw the lapell, 
man ; 

But this soon will end, 

Since clooty his friend, 
Has promis'd, e'er lang, to take him to himsel, man. 



172 



ow this wonderful Lurkmau, 
May frown like a Turk, man, 

And swear that the rhymers been unco uncivil ; 
But the news hae just come 
To inform us, the scum 

Tho' despised by man, is rever'd by the devil. 



SONG. 

O Mary, dinna gang frae me, 

And leave Britain's isles; 
O Mary, dinna gang- frae me, 

And reave me o' thy smiles. 
Far better break thy kindred's frown, 

Than risk the stranger's smile ; 
Falsehood may lurk in stranger's heart, 

To thee a lone exile. 

Exil'd o'er the Atlantic roar, 

Deep sighs thy heart may wound ; 
And thinking on auld Scotia's shore, 

Thy slumbers ne'er be sound. 
But come wi* me, where yon yew tree, 

Hangs o'er yon babbling burn — 
There love sincere and guileless ee, 

Shall sheild thy heart frae scorn. 

I'll bring the mawkin frae the glebe, 
The wild fowl frae the moor — 

I'll bring the roe frae mountain side, 
To heap thy winter store. 



173 

When I gang to the plow, Mary, 
As larks proclaim the morn, 

111 cheer the heart of you, Mary, 
The same at my return. 

While tides row to and fro, Mary, 
Yon mighty flood o' brine ; 

Or while our bosoms glow, Mary, 
My heart shall ay be thine. 



THE MINSTRELS DIRGE. 

To Scotia's harp the minstrel sang, 

Where Assinfs flood rows doun the dale ; 

Long had its notes on echoes rang, 
Enliven'd with his love saft tale. 



But now no more the warlike train 
He'll rouse to arms on Assint's dale ; 

No more his harp of tuneful strain, 
Will vibrate on the mountain gale. 

For bravely with the great Montrose, 
He joiiVd his injur'd monarch's cause, 

And fell while daring rebel foes, 
A martyr to subverted laws. 

Oft had he cheer'd the breast of pain, 
When tyrants frown'd upon our coast : 

Oft had his pibroch's mournful strain 
Arous'd to arms our native host. 






174 



He's seen the heroes of our land 

O'erpower'd by numbers, prest full sore ; 

He's seen the fierce invading band 

Driven with disgrace from Scotia's shore. 

Oft when the battle's strife was o'er, 

He's sooth'd the woes of widow'd dames ; 

Oft in the lover's peaceful bower, 
Their bosoms rais'd to ardent flame. 

But now no more, 



PENSIVE DITTY. 

Clear rows the bonny burn o' Awn, 

Clear rows the Irvine to the sea, 
The moon-beams dance on the dewy lawn, 

But O sic sweets are lost to me. 
Here wi' a bosom fu' o* woe, 

Jean and my babies far frae me ; 
O for a kiss o' the young anes moq, 

And the kindly glint o' the auld am 



The summer sun gie's life and light, 

Gowans grow gay on bank and brae, 
And luminous yon globes and bright 

That shine in heaven's vault sac high. 
But simmer's days, nor gowany braes; 

Nor all the sparkling balls that be ; 
"Tis she alone can sooth my woes, 

And blink the beam o" joy on me. 



175 

When yon bright orb of day gaes doun, 

And gloamiu drowsy fanlds liis ee, 
I seek the woodland's dreary gloom, 

Where nature pensive wails wi 1 me. 
Woodland echoes join my sang, 

Woodland warblers wail wi' me, 
Streams and burns that glide alang, 

Join wi 1 the wind, and mourn wi 1 me. 



SONG. 

Air — The banks o Clyde. 

'Twas summer, a' the fields were green, 

And Flora spread her mantle wide ; 
The gloamin clouds, red and serene, 

Had ting'd with gold the waves o" Clyde. 
Then sweet to slumber by the stream, 

Or on the mountains sunny side, 
When hope's bright ray in fancy's dream, 

Made Mary mine on the banks o' Clyde. 



When saft the e'ening zephyrs blaw, 

And silence reigns on Clutha's side, 
And toils hae ceas'd at Broomielaw, 

Where vessels float on gentle tide. 
The husband hameward hies his wav ; 

Fair Cynthia's shines the traveller's guide, 
Sends frae the lift her sil'er ray, 

And cheer' d us on the banks of Clyde. 



■ 



176 

The dewy green, the babblin stream 

That bratles doun the mountain side, 
Are fair to see when thou rt wi' me — 

Thou fairest maid on the bauks o' Clyde. 
Let Corra linn ay foaming' rin, 

With fragrant boughs on every side ; 
Let India's stores be wafted in, 

And commerce flourish on the Clyde. 



WHAT MEANS THAT SIGH? 

What means that sigh, when I draw, 

What ails my lovely Mary; 
I fear it speaks some fond desire, 

For her departed Harry. 

Thy Harry's gaue ne'er to return, 

I saw him cross yon terry ; 
But thou' 11 be mine, if thou 11 resign 

The thought o' Highland Harry. 

She gave her hand, but still her eyes 
Look'd to the southland karry ; 

Then turning round, gave me that wound- 
III ne'er forget my Harry. 

My pointed steel gleamd in the sun, 

! curs d the airts of Harry, 
And love doun in yon birkon gro\e. 

I died for Highland Mary. 



177 

JTHE SOUR MILK MAN'S DESCRIPTION OF 
A MUSEUM. 

" These polishers o' touns are a set o' greedy loons." 

Wonderfu 1 that an aulden carle, 
Should ken sae little o' the warld, 
As gang sae meikle far agee, 
As mak the warld laugh at me. 
Weel, Seestu', west kintry name, 
Will shine in after times in fame. 
Tak tent o' me, my rhyming blether, — 
I'm but a stirk new broke my tether ; 
Sae giff I bena' be sublime, 
G-dsake excuse me for the crime : 
And it wad mak' a herring laugh 
To ken that animated clay's grown dough ; 
If not to dough, o'er witching bowls 
They shaw their souls but trifling souls ; 
And show to men of half discerning, 
They neither hae worth, nor wit, nor learning ; 
But like to me, a sour milk man, 
Knows not myself, nor knows not man. 
But letting a' sic bums abee, 
Wha thrums and bums like drone or bee, 
I'll to my artless tale begin, 
Be't hum, or drum, or bless, or sin. 
Hooly, quo' I, man, till our Tarn, 
As' we sat gablin* o'er a dram, 
Till I unfold a tale to you 
That soon will ring the kintry through, 
A' making the witless fo'ks think wonder, 
Think fly ting wihVs voice was thunder. 
But no this dalying 'bout my letter, 
My love to screed in sang or satire ; 
12 



178 

L — d, Tarn, 111 swear by Neilston Pad, 
Thou soon wilt learn frae me, my lad. 



L — d, man, I hurl'd my milk and butter 
Doun by the banks o* Levern water ; 
Soon as I reached Paisley toun, 
The very first time Td been doun, 
Stood staumeril like I didna ken 
What street to tak first by the end ; 
Then soon like gameral in the market 
Looking- for buyers, be"t remarket, 
At length when hurling 'bout the cross, 
In street that bears the name o' Moss, 
I saw some beasts — could lay my lugs 
That they were sae far docile dogs ; 
For, L — dsake, Tarn, they didna bark 
At flesbers'' dogs at fighting- wark. 
E'en seeing they were nane ill-willie, 
I wish'd a comrade to our Collie. 
Our Collie is baith dull and douf — 
Nae dogs near him to change a bouf : 
In a strange place to use precaution, 
Because it's aye our kintry fashion, 
I led my horse to the wa' side, 
Syne up to see the dogs I gaed. 
The laird was saft and unco civil, 
The landlady as free o' evil; 
I speerd giff they had dogs for sale, 
Or gifl they selt glide buns and ale. 
They said they wud gie me a peep 
O" 1 things that ance could flee and creep. 
As moonbeams cheer the shade o' night, 
L — d, Tam, I saw a glorious sight ; 






179 



For sic a sight I never saw 
Inside o' ony biggit wa\ 
I've seen the bee, tiie wren, and raven; 
The fox, the hare, wi' dogs sair driven ; 
Muirfowl, and waterfowl on wing, 
That made me maist poetic sing. 
But, hooly, Tarn, till I rehearse 
What I saw, in my rustic verse : 
Fowls o' the air, fish o' the sea, 
Wonders to attract my wondering e'e* 
Fins o' fish, and wings o' fowls, 
A body hale, lang in the mools. 
The bane o' Mediteranean whale, 
That keepit Jonah hale and weel 
Until the Lord took afl his curse, 
O'er Jonah drinking o' his purse. 
Dregs o' the pool first Adam washed in, 
The very first mug that Eve had p — h'd in ; 
But wha the deil had form'd the same, 
Let it be tauld in after fame. 
And, wonderfu', I saw an apple — 
Oh ! dinna ferly, stupid staple ; 
It was the apple ance sae rotten, 
That now sae meikle sin's begotten. 
He's leaves o' trees that never grew, 
Forms artificial, God ne'er knew, 
With ither nigs and naws sae querious, 
Wad ding philosopher delirious ; 
And Lot s wife's thumb, L — d knows sae sawt is, 
*Twad sawted a poorshouse kail and tawties. 
He has aught leaves o' auld Adam's breeks, 
Ne'er seen by Latins or by Greeks ; 
i A needle whar made, — Oh ! dinna ask us, 
But surely not in toun Damascus ; 

i 

i 

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*•; 



180 

An atom o" first stane that fell 

Frae Vulcan's cave, now nicknanrd h-11 : 

Tail o 1 a serpent suppos'd to be 

Led Gutcher and Grannie baith ajee. 

I wonder'd the laird did this inherit, 

Sae meikle of ingenious merit : 

Fo'k said they ca r d him Willie S — a", 

Whilk I'll ca' thick e'er as to a'. 

I gaz'd amaz'd, and made remark — 

He's surely robbed Noahs ark ; 

Nae mair than that for lie a bird has 

Was ance the real bird o' Paradise. 

I swore nae tailor but auld Nature 

Had clad the bu'k o' sic a creature ; 

Were sic as easy got's a sparrow, 

I'd hae the marrow o't to marrow. 

There were drollities of a' dimensions, 

Warks o' wonnerfu" inventions : 

O' daddie Edie's coat a clout, 

And mither Eve's first wylicoat; 

A trout as fat, thout ony feeding, 

As it cam out the river Eden ; 

And the identical iron mell 

That Vulcan first had forg'd himsel"; 

He had scores o' curious cocks and hens, 

Whar they wore batch'd, nae body kens ; 

He has Exquimaws and Chinese shune, 

And ferlies frae ilka nation roun, 

With beasts as creeshless as creels, 

With curious shells and lifeless eels. 

He's fossils and shells baith to content ye, 

And petrifactions to present ye ; 

Flying fish, and diving fowls, 

And autumies of apes and owls ; 



181 I 

Two millers' thumbs, and eke an otter, 

As dry as sticks for want o' water. 

He has Cleopatra's parasole, 

Archimedes's desk and stool, 

On which he wrote on when the foe 

Gied to him the deadly blow. 

He has a dog stands in a neuk, 

Vow but it has a stern leuk ; 

I thocht at first it look'd sae stark, 

The beast at me was ginnie bark — 

Sae ance bereft o' rum'le gumtion, 

I throw'd it part my morning- luncheon ; 

I thocht 'twad catch'd it in a crack, 

But it wasna hungry — that's the fact ; 

Sae, Tarn, I'll tell our miser Jennock, 

O' a dog; that wadna taste a bannock ; 

For Jennock wad like sic beasts at hame, 

Sae independent in their wame. 

But what they got for their last meal 

] didna ken, nor canna tell ; 

But be it this, or be it that, 

The things were sleekit like, and fat. 

The very birds were sae deceiving, 

Ye'd thocht the very dead were living ; 

Yea a' the louping, crawling, and creeping, 

Were just as quiet's they had been sleeping; 

But how the deil he mauns to do't 

To flying insect, fowl, or brute, 

I couldna tell ; but, Tarn, I thought 

Some glaumery o'er my e'en was brought ; 

But I think he gies their arse a steek 

That ne'er anither meal they seek, — 

I'll hae to intercede and a' 

For sic a meal frae Willie S — a ; 



183 

Paying for sic I'd be nae loser, 

Be independent with the grocer ; 

I neither would eat or tak a dram, 

And wadna care the world a d — n. 

But, L — d, I'll yet, e'er I be done, 

About his curious boots and shoon. 

He has boots the very deil himsel 

Wad maist think shame to wear in h— II ! 

An antique lump of a bed post, 

Supposed now by Noah lost, 

While rocking o'er the Blackstone woods, 

Upon the wild destructive floods, 

When waters coup'd out ariel dishes, 

And a' was drown'd except the fishes, 

On whilk auld Noah grew fu' dainty, 

Sa'mon and herring he caught plenty. 

He durstna eat the beasts within, 

For they were to new world begin. 

Losh, Tarn, to tell thee ance for a', 

I canna tell a* what I saw ; 

Sae after some drams I gat a pree, 

1 bade gude day — cam aff wi' glee. 

But, losh ! when I cam doun the stair, 
My heart was fill'd wi" grief and care — 
My horse and cairt were baith awa, 
Whilk I left standing at the wa': 
Some polishers had catch'd the bridle, 
To put the beast, waes me ! in Bridewell ; 
But I ran aff while I was able, 
And found them in an outbye stable ; 
They sought for stabling ha"f-a-erown, 
And deil a strae they had laid doun, — 
I swore when absent frae my faes, 
I'd hurle nae mair frae Neilston Braee. 



183 



A PASTORAL SONG. 

'Twas Autumn, and Nature look'd gay, 

The fields wav'd wi 1 fair rustlin' corn ; 
I lean'd on yon heathy clad brae 

That hangs o'er the moorland burn. 
There I thought on my faithless love, 

And mourn'd o'er her scornfir reply, 
While the birds warbled joy thro 1 the grove— 

I answer'd their notes with a sigh. 

I sang o'er my love-lorn tale, 

The rocks only echo'd my strain ; 
I pour'd out my woes to the gale, 

And my sheep seem'd to hear me complain. 
I lean'd on the mossie clad rock, 

I slept, and her form did appear ; 
I thought she was tentin' my flock — 

But awaken 1 d in hopeless despair. 



CONTEMPLATIONS AND REFLECTIONS. 

See the golden sun retiring, 
Clouds in heavenly shade transpiring ; 
See the day-liv'd tribes expiring, 
Seeming weak and weary, O. 

Evening dews are now distilling, 
Mountain breezes now are chilling ; 
Now the clouds sae dark and sullen, 
Maks ilka thing look dreary, O. 



184 

Again the glorious sun appearing, 
A' the face o' nature*cheering, 
Sable clouds are disappearing, 
And ilka thing looks cheery, O. 

Doun the brae the burnie rushes 
'Neath the brier and birken bushes ; 
O'er the craigie linn it gushes 

Its mountain streams sae clearly, O. 

O'er the lawn are flow" rets springing, 
On ilka tree the birds are singing, 
Doun the glen rock echoes ringing — 
Scenes that I loe dearly, O. 

Lav'rocks sing to hail the day in — 
A" seem's blythe wi* lambies playing — 
A' but me sae pensive straying, 
Parted frae my deary, O. 

See the farmer harvest hailing, 
In ilka bosom hope prevailing, 
Save in mine — a wretch bewailing 
Prospects dark and dreary, O. 

Mine's the time that ne'er seems fleeting, 
Days that's dreary, cauld, and sleeting, 
A' the sheep fir dowie bleating, 
Nights that's lang and eerie, O. 

Thought o' pleasure ne'er returning, 
Aft I wander waefu 1 mourning, 
At all worldly insult spurning, 
And o'er human life sae vain. 






I 



185 

Once all future danger scorning-, 
Laurel'd wreaths my hopes adorning- ; 
Hearts bent on pleasure in the morning-, 
May e*er night be fill'd wi* pain. 

Now those eyes where hope once beaming-, 
O'er pale cheeks the tears are streaming- ; 
Now this voice in horror screaming-, 
CarolTd once in cheerfu' strain. 



EPISTLE TO DAVID WEBSTER. 

This scrawl, a would-be-rhymer writes 
To his acquaintance, Davie Doits, 
To lean why he, the laird of loits 

Sat on a staue — 
While a' g-ot butter to their bites, 

And he got nane. 

But I must stile you drunken Davie, 
For I'm inform'd ye misbehave aye ; 
To drink ye are a willing- slave aye, 

If a 1 be true ; 
Gill after gill ye drink and crave aye, 

Till ye get fou. 

I must confess it grieves me sair, 
To think a man of talents rare, 
Possessing all the wit and lear 

That ye possess, 
Should like a fish drink late and e'er, 

To such excess. 



186 

O what, Intemperance, hast thou done ! 
Immortal Burns and Ferguson, 
The best and brightest ever shone, 

Have been thy slaves, 
And filTd by thee, and thee alone, 

Untimely graves. 

Foe to the weel of every nation, 
Virtue, knowledge, civilization, 
Mother of famine and starvation, 

Behind thy path, 
Nothing is seen but desolation, 

Ruin and death. 

Now, Davie, I regard your weel, 
And to yourself I here appeal, 
When from the whisky shop ye reel 

Debas'd with drink, 
What must your hapless family feel ? 

What must they think ? 

Oh ! Davie, lad, the road ye go 
Conducts to misery, want, and woe ; 
What precious time away ye throw, 

Health, strength, and means, 
And ruinous example show 

To wife and weans. 

What is't insipid sots to hear 
Boast of the kindly hearts they bear, 
When upon drink what ought to clear 

The debts they owe — 
And starving, naked, offspring cheer 

Awav thev throw. 



187 

To hear the monsters rail aloud 
At all who act the part they should, 
The wise, the gen'rous, just, and good, 

The very best 
Models of moral rectitude 

Drunkards detest. 

The grov'ling wretches seem to see 
In vice the best morality, 
To them a sterling man is he 

Who never thinks, 
Wallows in sloth, and recklessly 

His money drinks. 

Let reason, truth, and virtne plead, 
Whate'er be your religious creed, 
Strive to fulfil by word and deed, 

The moral law ; 
If possible, a life to lead 

Without a flaw. 

Whatever priests may preach or pray, 

Into what mazes go astray, 

One truth they tell us when they say 

Goodness and worth 
The cost of culture will repay 

E'en upon earth. 

I own although I dont get fou, 

I have defects as well as you ; 

That I have faults, and great ones too, 

I'll not dispute, — 
But he's a friend I must allow, 

Who points them out. 



188 

So I expect to be excused 

For all the freedom I have used ; 

But that ye have been worse abused 

Than ye should be, 
The wit throughout your work defused 

Convinces me. 

I know that if astray ye gang, 

Ye have a conscience that can stang. 

The author of that famous sang 

" Tak it man, tak it/ 1 
Could never go so widely wrang, 

As some would mak it. 

Or if ye are what they pretend, 

Ye must endeavour now to mend, — 

Perform what leads to a good end, 

As fars ye can, 
The part of husband, father, friend, 

As prudent man. 

For time to come be wise and douce, 
Attend your family, loom, and house, 
And read, and write, or court the muse 

When ye have leisure, 
And life ye'll find can yet produce 

Both peace and pleasure. 

Or when ye have an hour to spare, 
To the green woods and fields repair 
Now when all nature's face is fair, 

And every grove 
Pours music on the balmy air. 

Where'er ve rove. 



189 

When Nature her green mantle spreads, 
"Tis sweet to muse in fragrant shades, 
In flow'ry dells, and haughs, and glades 

Where streamlets rin 
Meandering o'er their pebbl'd beds 

With murmuring din. 

Or stray where cooling breezes blow, 
By woody banks where rivers flow, — 
Such scenes can purer joys bestow 

On thinking souls, 
Than all that debauchees can know 

From flowing bowls. 

Do weel, do ill, get worse, or better — 
To me be creditor or debtor, — 
But on your conduct, in this letter, 

Ye have my breath : 
I with yourself now leave the matter — 

Your friend till death, 

A. M'G. 



THE BRAES O 1 CRAIGMADDIE. 

Air — " Bonny Dundee? 
How cheerful, O sun ! on the braes o" Craigmaddie, 

Thy earth-cheering shade at the dawn of the day ; 
Thy beauty's unpeer'd like my Jean o' Craigmaddie, 

Wha's ilka thing lovely, endearing, and gay. 
Her features are smiling, her words they are wileing, 

Nae mortal on earth mair attractive can be ; 
There's nae bonny lass in our sea-bounded island, 

Sic wonders can work wi' a blink o 1 their ee. 



190 

Fu' aft hae I stray'd by the braes o' Craigmaddie, 

When far in the west sunk the parent o' day, 
And later at e'en, when the moon, bonny lady, 

Had lent us the light o' her lily-white ray. 
When dew had distill'd on the moorland and moun* 
tain — 

When gloamin' had lower'd o'er the gay summer's 
scene ; 
And night-borne echoes frae woodland and fountain, 

In sweet humming melodies sang to my Jean. 

What tho' the autumn comes raving and blawing, 

Deflow'ring the beauties o 1 garden and glen ? 
What tho 1 the winter come raining and snowing, 

And torrents frae Campsie row doun on the plain. 
Again shall the spring come pacific as ever, 

To soothe winter's scowl to a summer's serene : 
Heaven to nature has aye been a lover — 

So shall the plowboy be to his J ean. 

Oft hae I been charm'd wi' the flowers o' the summer, 

Inspir'd by the warblers that sing on the tree ; 
But flowers of the summer, and birds on the timber, 

Are nane sae delightful as Jeanie's to me. 
I hae linked her sweets in this sort o' love sonnet, 

To hum while I harrow or plow on the lea ; 
And should she refuse, I'll louch my auld bonnet, 

And wail o'er my fate till the day that I die. 



SONG. 

Sunk wi' a sair and sullied conscience, 
Heart just like a ruffl'd sea; 

Wi' brain aye revelling in nonsense — 
Gien to drouthy bodies glee. 






191 

Daunering wf doublet's duddie — 
Shivering 1 wi 1 the cauld I dree ; 

Grown as creeshless as a wuddy, 
Just by dint o' poverty, 

Rack'd by woman bodie flyting, 
Wha in raptures often flee: 

Woman's smiles are aye inviting, 
Woman's frowns gie pains to me. 

But a pouch as light's a feather, 
Maks the heart to heavy be ; 

Pouches toom, and geezen'd bladder. 
For the lack o' barley bree. 

Ance in youth, wi* cheeks baith rosy, 
Tho' I hadna brown bawbee, 

] gat love frae ilka hizzie, 
Smiles frae ilka human e'e. 

BlamM for liking drink and lazy, 

Ca'd a loun in lunacy ; 
By abuse maist driven crazy, 

'Cause I hae nae cash to gie. 

Deav'd wi 1 bairnies roaring round me, 
Some wi' wailing, some wi' glee, — 

Ilka thing that can confound me— 
Surly wife for lack o' tea. 

Must this mind, that ance was cheery, 
Sink 'neath ither minds in gree ? 

No, by yonder starry karry, 

Hope still deigns to beam on me. 



192 



SONG. 
Air — " Here's io the days that are gane. 

Here's to the lads of our isle, 

With hearts free o' falsehood and guile ; 
And here's to the lasses sae bonny and blythe, 

Wha bless sic gude lads vvi' their sniile. 

Auld Scotland, the heroes in thee, 
Can mak thy invaders to flee ; 

And, Scotland, thy dames 

Are such beautiful gems, 
That they kill wi" ae glance o' their e'e. 

Then here's to the brave of our isle — 
Our lasses sae blythe and sae free ; 

And here's to the heart that can ever impart 
Unto the sad bosom some glee. 

Honesty, tho* ever sae auld, 

Keeps friendship frae growing o'er cauld : 

Truth comes from above 

Like a true lover's love, 
As by prophets of yore we are tauld. 

While red grows the heath on our hills, 
While dews frae the karry distills, 

Scottish hearts shall be bold, 

Their love never grow cold, 
But pure as their mountainous rills. 

Then here's to the brave of our isle, 
To our lasses sae blithe and, sae free; 

And here's to the heart that can ever impart 
Unto the sad bosom sweet glee. 



193 

PAISLEY RACES. 

Fye let us a' to the Races, 
For there will be merriment there, 
Since Farmers frae far awa places 
Are coming their nags to compare. 

Yon Blacksmith west by by Gleniffer, 

He warrants a warm contest, 
Seeing- hale twenty pounds in the offer 

For them wha ride fastest and best. 
While smiling* he rests on his anvil, 

As eantie's a king on his throne, 
A' the news that are pleasant or painful, 

He gets frae his customers round. 

Then fye, &c. 

Tho 1 his wife's just as thrawn as a wuddy— 

Wad keep him frae a 1 sorts o' glee, 
He has sworn by the snout o' his study, 

A' the sports o' the races to see. 
Sae wi' nose just as red as a cherry, 

Yell see him come info the fair, 
An' there 1 mang his craftsmen sae merry, 

He'll sing, an 1 he'll rant, an' he'll rare. 
Then fye, &c. 

For there'll be rinnin' and racin', 
Wi* help o' the whip and the spur, 

An' thousands o 1 blithe bodies gazing, 
Frae heights and frae hillocks af ir. 

In jackets o' red, blue, air yellow, 

Ye'll think "mang the hedges t\ ey flee ; 
1.3 



194 



But Friday, losh man, like a swallow- 
He bears frae his neebours the gree. 

Then fye, &c. 

An* there'll be gude tents an' shachels, 

For drinkers to roar an' to rift, 
While shouts frae the cars, carts, and scaffolds, 

Will ring thro 1 the echoing lift. 
There'll be carriers, horse-coupers, and cadgers 

Galloping like gytes upon horse, 
Wi' pennyless loons laying wagers, 

An* blunts wi" their brain in their purse. 



I 



An' there'll be fouth o 1 buffooneries, 

To pleasure the easy deceived, 
Tame Bears made Wild men o' sae won'rous, 

And dogs that but short syne were shav'd. 
An' there'll be madmen and merrymen, 

Wr non-such nonsensical jokes, 
W f won'rous wee magical strong fo'k, 

Wha" can lift a cart load by their locks. 
Then fye, &c. 

And there'll be warpers and weavers, 

Wha for subjects are ne'er at a loss, 
Wi 1 square neukit rhymes tellin* stories 

"Bout trenchiir an' delvin* the moss. 
For there'll be sports in profusion, 

Wi* gude gear and gear mix'd wi' (I 
Wi" paintin 1 an* prints o' delusion, 

Air penny reels danc'd in a close. 

Thenfve. &c. 



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i 



195 

There'll be Parrots and Pelicans yellin', 

Air baboons to keep bodies in mirth, 
Wi* numerous Nignaws from New Zealand 

The clean tither side o' the yirth. 
But the things that'll gie ye maist laughter, 

Giff haply sic be at haun', 
Are the Mermaids that ne'er were in water, 

Keepin' drouthy fo'k drinkin' on Ian'. 

Then fye, &c. 

There many a fam'd piper billie, 

Fu' loud at the pibroch will strive, 
Wi' Fiddlers frae Glasco' an 1 Killie, 

To keep drousie bodies alive. 
Our bards they'll be rhymin' an' chimin', 

An bumin' like bees in the loan, 
An' ilka blithe heart '11 be hymin*, 

The praises o' auld Caledone, 

Then fye, &c. 



EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

Friend, parent, neighbour, first he will embrace ; 
His country next; next all the human race; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, 
And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. — POPE. 

Hail ! thou, my friend, of social wit and mirth, 
Thou wale of mankind, here on mother Earth ; 

do not spurn to hear my humble lays — 

1 think thy worth beyond my power to praise. 
Nor think that I will strive to be profuse, 

In strains of flattery, basest of abuse, 

Of him whose virtues now inspire my muse. 






lm 



D Muse! though destined to a cold neglect 
And hopeless ay of general respect, 
Though thou unpolished be by art or rule. 
And stranger be to scientific school. 
Nature was wise e'er art had learned the wav, 
So men shall learn from this artless lay, 
Propitious Heaven impartially throws down 
Bliss unto genius, and to sumphish clown. 
To him who would be selfish, artish creature, 
She tells him Art is but a child of Nature ; 
So all the bliss that ever bless'd the whole, 
And all the fire which fires the human soul, 
Yea all the inspiration e'er was given, 
Comes but by Nature, that first child of Heaven. 

Not that 1 mourn my want of uordiy fame, 
Although, like more, I'm envious of the same; 
Not that I'm fond to shew my minor parts, 
Though fond of company, and open hearts ; 
But this I mourn : my drinking driegh with those, 
The rude, the vicious, and the unjocose ; 
Then like a fool, made mad with worse than wine, 
I throw my brightest pearls unto swine. 
Then bear the scoff of those I strive to please, 
Who have no sense to judge, nor sympathize; 
But laugh and ridicule my roundela;. 
And what of this ; the wiser words it well — 
Whoe'er would please the dolt, wad needs be dolt 

him 
He who would please the minor wit himself, 
Would needs be one of minor wit himself. 
Be pleas' d with nonsense, jeer, and spurn at sei 
And scorn the road which leads to eminence: 
Despising feelings finer than his own, 
Rewarding merit with a sumphish frown. 



11)7 



Devoid of modesty, bereft of grace, 

Who'd rather to buffoonery give place. 

But different thou from bulk of human kiud, 

Who notice but the weather and the wind. 

A fine day says one man ; — another says, " it is 

that ;" 
A foul day says another, — another says "it is that/ 
With all that vain disgusting affectation 
Of little soul, so common in our nation. 
This new and trifling sentence, tlio* provincial, 
By frequent usage, is now consequential ; 
Quite happy that they have it to explain, 
Mechanically, tli* approval of their brain. 
Thus pass they heedless o'er the choicest scene, 
As if they were but brutes, instead of men. 
But such the passive mortals here below, 
The less they know, the less they learn to know. 
One's to reflection dead, the thoughtless man, 
He neither knows to reason, nor to scan ; 
Narrow in knowledge, naturly cramp in mind, 
One of th' illiterate self-conceited kind, 
Who hath no love but that toward himself, 
Who hath no pursuit, but in quest of pelf, 
Who hath no motive, all his god a purse, 
Whate'er he dies, he lives most like the horse. 
Far different, friend, thy motives prove to be, 
For so thy actions tell the world and me ; 
And since the world will sound thy honest fame, 
So am I urged to praise thee for the same. 
I can't dissemble, if I speak the truth, 
And sure "tis true that's said by ev'rv mouth ; 
Tis not that 1 the world's respect would mind, 
The world is often to men's virtues blind. 



198 



: 



If all men's merit rest on th 1 world's esteem 

Farewell for ever to a hopeful beam. 

Not that my muse would waver like the wind, 

But incidents fall in of various kind ; 

It's hard to tell what's round my brain, or in't, 

But new ideas I get by random dint. 

,r Tis seldom that my muse aspires to judge, 

And when she dictates, then I write with grudge, 

For I would wish her rather to be modest, 

As bad musicians never should be loudest. 

But she insists on venting that effusion, 

Concerning rhyme — before she mak conclusion. 

Now stammering forward, like a selfish fool, 
Thus she proceeds with her tale to give rule. 
But O excuse, if chance I make instrusions 
)n sense and worth, with critical allusions. 
Though haflins backward, thus I must commence 
Lines must be weildy, sentences be sense, 
Or 1 to writing can hae nae pretence. 
Lines must be measure, line with line must chime. 
Or else it ceases to be brose or rhyme. 
We must have license granted for digression, 
Scribblers as well as Poets by profession, 
We must not change at once, but by degrees ; 
So good Poets do with gracefulness and ease ; 
Words must be waled, fitting for the the theme, 
And if the plot's long lost the bard's to blame ; 
And woe to him who writes to's future shame. 

As long borne trifles soon become a weight, 

And level landscapes weary out the sight, 

So must the minor muse through sameness creep. 



199 

To tire the patience and encourage sleep ; 

And if bereft of energ-y and taste, 

'Tis to the reader like a dreary waste. 

So when I feel deficient in the matter, 

I ridicule, or pepper you with satire ; 

But lest with critical digression you're perplext, 

I shall resume my main original text. 

So now I come to that part of my sonnet 

Which tends to put a feather in my bonnet. 

'Tis said thou feel'st for all thy neighbours" woes, 

'Tis said thou niourn'st their lack of bread and brose, 

'Tis said thou wail'st men's worldly disasters, 

But Lord forbid ye patron Poetasters ! 

Yet thou'st a laurel won which crowns the whole, 

And claims the love of ev'ry loving soul ; 

'Tis said — (but Prudence tells me what's enough) — 

'Tis known thou art a man — if that's enough. 



A MOURNFU' DITTY, 

FOUNDED ON FACT. 

This iri6tant is thine — 

The next in the womb of futurity. 

The bonny gowden sun's gaun o'er the hill- 

The night begins to fa' ; 
And our gudeman at Craigiebnrn mill 

Since morning's been awa. 

He promised weel he wad be back 

E'er crowdie time cam on ; 
Now kail and crowdie time's baith past, 

And there's nae word o' John. 



300 

He kent our store o' bread was sma", 
Three bannocks and a crum ; 

And I gied the gaberlunzie twa, 
Ay thinking he wad come. 

I gied the beast an extra bite, 
To help them o'er the hill ; — 

And ablins it's the miller's wyte, 
I ken he lo'es a gill. 

Tho' our gudeman's nane gien to drink, 
He's social, frank, and free ; 

Should he be wrang, I e'en maun wink, 
He seldom gangs ajee. 



But weary fa' their clavers a', 
I think they're foolish men 

To sit and drink their sense awa, 
And sair won siller spend. 

He's maybe fa'n in Craigie linn, 

Or met wi' skaith a-fiel ; 
Waes me, I canna sit to spin — 

I'll e'en set by my wheel. 

Wee Jamock, wi* an anxious e'e, 
Sits wearying on the knowe ; 

And Jeanock joins in sighs wi' me, 
Beside the ingle lowe. 

Between the fire and door I gang, 

A crazy doited body ; 
Wi" hechs and howes ! he's biden lane 

The sky i? getting cloudy. 



201 

^x.J ilka head comes o'er the hill, 

Ilk foot comes doun the loan ; 
I'm fond to flatter aye mysel — 

Now this'll be our John. 

And aye I nurse the flatt'ring hope, 

That Johnny's hale and vveel ; 
But hope is but a falt'ring prop 

Between the gude and ill. 

I've felt anticipated bliss 

Revers'd to real pain ; 
But when a body's comfortless, 

They're fond to hope again. 

And yonder blinks the lady moon, 

I ken by her sil'er ray ; 
I'm glad she's up, and glintin' down, 

To licht him on his way. 

But, hark ! was yon our laird's cock's craw, 
Tho' the night be dark and still ; 

And thrice our Bawsie's left the staw — 
A' things are boding ill. 

I kenna what brought it in my head, 

But just as he left the door, 
I thought a waefu' glowr he gied, 

And he ne'er did sae before. 



202 

The unconscious heart of her babe she lull'd 
To sleep with her song of mourning ; 

While grief had the older bosoms fill'd 
With thoughts of their sire's returning. 

And the bonny sirer moon sank o er the main. 

As the day began to daw ; 
The bonny gowden sun rose cheerfu* again, 

But J ohimy was ay awa. 



JOCK SAUT THE CADGER. 

" O wad some power the giftie gie i^, 
To see oursel*s a* others see us.' - — lir; 

Paisley folk as weel as me, 

Kens Jock Saut the Cadger ; 
Baxter bykes better than me, 

Kens Jock Saut the Cadger. 
When Johnny extra drinks o" maut, 
The dribbles o't fa's in the saut, 
Whilk maks the baxter loons find faut 
Wf Jock Saut the Cadger. 



CHORUS. 

Baxter bodies, gie him cash, 

Jock Saut the Cadger ; 
The feck o" whilk lie gies, the hash, 

For drink, the drouthy Cadger. 
Baxter lads ding him ajee 
With barm swats and barley bree, 
Until the sense and wit gae* alec 

O Jock Saut the Cadger. 






203 

Galloping 1 through street and lane, 

J oek Saut the Cadger ; 
Dogs bouff and wisocks grunt and grane, 

At J ock Saut the Cadger. 
While Johnny on his little carr, 
Sits as proud's a god of war, 
Nae policeman can be a scar 

To J ock Saut the Cadger. 



See ye how the gouk doth gape, 
J ock Saut the Cadger ; 

With face the likest to an ape, 
Jock Saut the Cadger. 

When he lifts his mole-like een, 

With a nochty nose between ; 

The biggest ferly e'er was seen, 
Is Jock Saut the Cadger. 



Jock Saut had an Ass, 

The ass his only cronnie ; 
But how deil did it come to pass, 
The ass rob'd comrade Johnny. 
When Jock had filFd his luggies fu' 
O' ilk thing gude to taste his mou, 
He gaed to brag the weaver crew — 
Waes me for Jock the Cadger, 

Quoth Jocky to the weaver elfs — 

Jock Saut the Cadger ; 
I've walth on table, and on skelfs, 

Quo' J ock Saut the Cadger. 



204 



But losli ! how Johnny hung his snout ; 
The Ass cam in when Jock was out, 
And licket ilka morsel out 
Frae Jock Saut the Cadger. 

But how the weaver did gaffa 

At Jock Saut the Cadger ; 
The beast was fash'd wr hungry maw, 

As weel's the drouthy Cadger. 
Then Jock with unhallow voice and tongue, 
In bitter words bewail" d the wrong; 
But faith I'll louner her wr this rung, 

Quo' Jock Saut the Cadger. 



.1 



IRISH SONG, 



WRITTEN IN SCOTLAND. 



Air — " The Wedding of Ballyporeen." 

' Twas one morning at night e'er the sun had got up, 
Being much in good humour by taking a cup, 

Why I rov'd just for pleasure through Ballyporeen. 
The night being dark, the moon could not appear, 
Shoul I thought I might trust without sight to my ear 
But my ear prov'd unsafe for the devil knowt why, 
For I tumbled up downwards into a pigs stye, 
Where I welter d in gutters at Ballyporeen. 



Then I thought I'd get up, but when morning i 
I was told by my eye-sight I wanted my clotln 
Being stript by a gruntef at Ballyporeen. 



205 

Then I went for a soldier for the sake of a suit, 
Not thinking on war, sure, nor wishing' to fight ; 
But a band of white boys came down from a hill, 
With some old rusty weapons, resolved to kill 
Each soldier they found in old Ballyporeen. 



i Then I got a great birth to command a large gun, 
! Soon I thought we were beat and was going to run ; 
| But they calPd me a coward at Ballyporeen. 
Sure says I, I'm no coward, but just for my life, 
I'm afraid it may leave me alone me in the strife ; 
| For the balls were so thick, I'd no place for my head, 
| So I found myself shot while I thought I had fled ; 
Bad luck for poor Paddy at Ballyporeen. 

Then my captain came to me, my death to deplore, 
Where he found me as dead as a nail in a door, 

Or as crafty's the parson at Ballyporeen. 
But the boys having fled to the mountains for hope, 
And the fighting all over I thought I'd get up, 
When the the doctor informed me my wound was but 

slight, 
That very same morning I bade a good night 

To my trusty old regiment at Ballyporeen. 

Then I run all the way as I crippl'd along, 

For I knew my wife Sail at her grief would be throng 

If she knew I was murder d at Ballyporeen. 
When I came to the place where my cottage once 

stood, 
Ah! they told me 'twas burned for my country's 

good — 



206 



That Sally poor woman had gone for to beg-, 
So I straightway went after her lame of a leg, 
And sung my misfortunes at Ballyporeen. 



EPISTLE TO MR. JOHN FISHER. 



Let those who never felt the flame, 
Say friendship is an empty name, — 
Such selfish caulcl philosophy 
For ever I disdain — TaNNAHill. 



All hail ! thou kindly social sanl 
That wins by Irvine stream, 

Hale be thy heart, sae blythe and bawl, 
Ay cheer'd with hopeful beam. 

Long may that feeling breast of thine 
Be fir'd with friendly glow ; 

And distant far thy health's decline, 
To lay thy body low. 

Should sad reflection e'er implant 

In thy warm heart a sting, 
Tune up the Cameronian rant, 

Till all the kebars ring. 



Then think on me, thy scribbler strange, 

While vibrate ilka string; 
And I'll some canty roundels range; 

We'll all our sorrows dins'. 



207 

Ye'll mind of me, a rhyming ckeil 
That fate drove to thy door, 

When roving- far frae hamely beil 
Alano- the western shore. 



Tho' something halanshaker like, 

Yell maybe own that I 
Some feelings hae, and nae rude tyke, 

Ungrateful by the bye. 

No, Fisher, no, my bosom warms 

Ay to a cheil like thee ; 
Thy lib'ral mind, and social charms 

Will ay be dear to me. 

This spunk of fire of local fame 

That lingers in my pow, 
Ay when 1 think upon thy name, 

It breaks forth in a lowe. 

Nor dinna wonder tho' a tear, 
Should trickle o'er my beard, 

When chance they fall on menrry dear, 
Those friendly to the bard. 

Tho" 1 want of friends, and empty purse 

Mak rhyming body's blate, 
And dings them mad, maist like to curse 

The goddesses of fate. 

Still fiYd by mawt, that modern witch, 
Ye'll see them whyles fu 1 canty ; 

Syne borrowing frae hope a hitch, 

Glide faith, they whyles grow vauntie. 



208 

Ye'd see siclike o* me, tho* baith 

Dejected and forlorn ; 
L — d, I was blythe that ye were laith 

To treat a fool nrf scorn. 

But I should drap my rhymes, I true, 

My unpoetic strain — 
Pretensions till a judge like you, 

I fear are partly vain. 

I canna in a strain sublime, 
Rise soaring through the lift, 

Save putting twa three words in rhyme,— 
1 claim nae farther gift. 

The friends and flatterers — sic fools 

Wad fain gie me a lift ; 
And says I hae — L — d bless their souls 

nature's fire a tift. 

My muse then scampers on her way, 
Thro' prose and rhyme like drift, 

Till critics draw me doun the brae, 
When they begin to silt. 

But let them do't, it's weel their parts 
To handle me something tight ; 

I loe the undissembling hearts 
That loves to see me right. 

Tim some there be wha spurn my rhymes 

Wi" proud and scornfir e'e, 
'Cause sidlings whyles in moral crimes 

1 staggering gang ajee. 



209 

They're superstitiously abeigh ; 

W hat can they say or moan ; 
But vvhyles at drinking I am dreigh — 

Whyles o'er loud in the loan. 

A fig for their pretended care, 
Their formal grumph and groan ; 

Altho' their tongue and lips be fair, 
Philanthrophy they've none. 

Tho' nature, or nature's mighty lord, 
Has form'd me fond of pleasure ; 

My mind as liberally he's stor'd 
Wi* thought, that painfu' treasure. 

Whyles glad to blunt reflection's sting, 
And be a short while happy ; 

I hae to own I drink and sing, 
And o'er fond o' the drappie. 

Ye heavenly powers, my prayer is this,- 

Wad ye for ance be kind ; 
Give me that valuable bliss — 

Serenity of mind. 

I wish, Sir, bless to thee, my frien', 

With now and then a horn 
Of nappy drink — if fou at e'en, 

A wee drap mair at morn. 

Now I'll be anxious ways, I ween, 

Till this to thee be borne ; 
Nor frown ye at it, tho' my sheen, 

And doublets be torn. 

14 



210 

Should fate, or chance, or drunken notion, 

Or creditor's vile threatening-, 
E'er send me your gate near the ocean, 

We's hae anither slockening. 

But should I never see you mair, 

In winter nor in summer, 
I think some wandering thoughts ye'll spare 

On the forlorn rhymer. 

For whither I am in sober mood, 

Or dribbling and drinking ; 
Or seeking scenes o 1 solitude — 

I'm oft about thee thinking. 



BLASTED HOPE. 

Nocht's to be won at women's han', unless ye gie them a' the plea. 

I saw in a dream as if hope was new, 

For it beam'd like a star on my wrinkl'd brow ; 

And I gloried in its shade o* light, 

For it cheer'd my soul like a meteor bright. 

1 saw a satellite to me once bright, 
As e'er moonbeam in a winter night, 

Till a cloud came o'er my sparkling beam, 

Like the blasted hope of a pleasing dream. 

O I saw in the eyes of a female creature, 

Something ignoble in her nature ; 

For I saw in the flush of her frowning face, 

That might bereave her sex of grace. 

Her eyes that did once give hope of heaven, 

Her heart that 1 thought rage ne'er would riven : 



211 

Soon those eyes grew as chaos to a sailor's e'e, 

And her rage-torn heart like a rage-roaring sea. 

Then I felt as if some clod of clay 

Hid my soul from light in the shine of day ; 

And felt as if from me was riven 

The greatest bliss 'neath the vault of heaven. 

Then my eyes they clos'd to the rays of the sun, 

As the warrior dies with a sigh and a moan. 

I awake as one just from the dead, 

And found it a dream thus verified : — 

That human hope, tho 1 bright at noon, 

Grows often dim, and sets with the sun. 

Then I thought no more I'd place my prop 

In breast-bewitching flattering hope ; 

But would leave this flaunting flame of mirth 

To be priz'd by the young and the weak on earth. 



A close-mouth'd philosopher is better than an open- 
mouth'd fool. 

The fool that speaks least talks the least nonsense. 

He that is a fool to-day, will be a greater fool 
to-morrow. 

Throw little away, and you will have least to gather. 

Lend little, least you need to borrow. 

Men, in proportion, are children to their intellects. 

A' men are wise in their ain conceit. 

Ignorance brings blockheads to debate. 

They speak most of God, who know least of him. 

Describe thou a blade of grass, then try to describe 
thy Creator. 

They're wise enough that cannot learn to be wiser: 
a world for a bosom of self-conceit. 



— 



212 

That which was sun, moon, and earth's Creator, is 
little known by animated nature. 

Speak not of God, for thou knowest least of him. 

What is it to philosophize? it is a philosopher 
teaching" his mightier wisdom. 

Speak not of heaven, who knows not the earth. 

Who can describe hell better than he who has it in 
his bosom. 



A WHOLESOME ADVICE TO A PRIEST. 

FRAE THE MAX IN THE MOON. 

This little odditie seems to have been sent from that old sinner who was 
banished to the moon in olden times for gathering; sticks on Sunday, seeing it 
was found when floating: down the strawn among corks and herring ' 
the midst of a thunder ,-torm. 

Haud, baud, Tavish M'Taggit, 

Dinna let go upon ony account, man ; 
Haud and draw, Tavish M'Taggit, 

Haud, or your craftsmen 'ill ca ye a blunt, man. 
Haud by yon tow rape furious and fell, man, 

Let not the ruthless get ringing your bell, man ; 
Ne'er let Sectarian in toun get a tugg o't, 
Till your condecension be gien at the lug o't. 
Haud, haud, &c 



Matter nane what ye preach, think that its gowks ye 
teach, 

Tell them how useful the tithes and the taxes ; 
Recommend charity, but turn your head agee 

Whenever they wish ye to put it in practice. 
Tell them sweet tales "bout the tumphies" society, 

Trump up frugality, damn prodigality ; 
Wail in your fly tings e'er spirits were mawted, 

But lave in ilk luxury you that can get it. 

Haud, haud, &c. 



. 



213 

Tell them that common sense is passive obedience, 

Tell them they're worthless, wild, and degenerate ; 
Rowte they're transgressors, proclaim them oppressors 

The only on earth they're entitled to venerate. 
When the poor hungry bodies a* hanging in duddies, 

A-beggin' wad enter your sanctum sanctorum, 
With your heart that is calous, send your dog on 
your fellows, 

And mutter a curse with your usual decorum. 

Haud, baud, &c. 

But if what is ca'd gentry, should call at your entry, 

Wishing admittance, be sure for to grant it ; 
Mimic a christian air, gie them a word o' prayer, 

And offer your purse, when you're sure it's not 
wanted. 
Soothe awa to the Highlands, ye Tory man, Tavish, 

W T here you and siclike in false mystery may lavish ; 
Roar in your railings as former so basely, 

And slur the Sectarian bodies o' 

Haud, haud, &c. 

Bid them no drink, least it causes a drouth man — 

Praise a' the slaves to the kirk and the wark, man ; 
Bid them ca' cannie, and keep a ca'm sough, man, 
Expose all their faults, keep your ain in the dark, 

man. 
Haud, haud, Tavish M'Taggit, 

Dinna let go upon ony account, man ; 
Haud and draw, Tavish M'Taggit, 

Haud, or your craftsmen will ca' ye a blunt, man. 



VERSES to the MEMORY of J. CAMERON. 

Now summer flowers round rural bowers, 

Are blooming bonnily ; 
And clear the rills frae heath-clad hills, 

Row to the briny sea. 



The lav'rocks sing on wanton wing, 
In the blue vault sae hie ; 

Zephyrs skim saft o'er the stream, 
And fish loup wantonly. 



The harmless lambs hap round their dams 

In blythe and sportive key ; 
The sky is clear, and all is dear 

To philosophic e'e. 

But nocht to me can pleasure gie, 

Since Cameron has gane ; 
I sit and mourn by moorland burn, 

And lone sequesterd scene. 

My hamely muse, soon as the news 
Sae sad, had reached mine ear ; 

Left love's sweet strains, and flowery plains, 
For willows hung in tears. 



In pensive mood I seek the wood 
Where solitude doth dwell. 

To pour my waes amang the braes. 
Or in the rocky cells. 



215 

The muses nine, with airs divine, 

Oft smooth'd my rustic lay, 
And bid me wail in tragic tale, 

O'er Cameron in the clay. 

Oh ! Cameron, in thy genuine airs, 
But few could with thee vie, — 

Your skilful bow could soothe our hearts- 
Your pencil charm the eye. 

Apollo, string thy harp, and sing 
Thy servant Cameron's elegy ; 

And rocks around with echoing sound, 
Will join thy heavenly melody. 



SONG. 

The setting sun the day doth close ; 

The blackbirds hail the dusky e'en ; 
The gloamin' dews refresh the rose, 

And sparkle on the leaves sae green , 
So I'll awa to Stanley shaw, 

To see my ain, my artless J ean ; 
I've been o'er lang frae Stanley shaw, 

For O my heart was there yestreen. 

Rise, bonny moon, o'er bank and brae ; 

Shine, bonny moon, on Stanley green ; 
One blythe blink o' thy siller ray 

Upon the lovely face o' Jean. 
But spare her cot, ye wintry winds, 

When frae the north ye're blowin' keen; 



216 

For never did the summer sun 

Shine on a fairer flower than Jean. 

Now down the glen the burnie row'd, 

Wi" murmurs charming a" the scene ; 
And Cynthia, parting from a cloud, 

Soon sillerd o'er the planting green. 
Through shades where limpid waters lave, 

Or, hurrying, wimple down a glen, 
When moon-beams dance on rippling waves, 

How sweet to wander wi' my Jean ! 



SOLEMN DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF 
ALEXANDER WILSON. 

Written for.) and recited at his Anniversary, 1816. 

O'er the flowers of genius 

Fornl memory lingers, and mourns their 

While pensively wandering in yonder deep dell, 
And musing o'er fate where the clear burnie fell ; 
The wild flowers around me perfusiv ely sprang, 
And the small birds were singin" the foilage amang. 
A light sunny shower had refresh'd the gay weeds, 
And from ilka green bought hang clear pearly beads; 
The trees in wild grandeur o'er-arched the linn, 
Where the stream o'er the rocks made a garglin' din. 

There, low on the brink neath a green willow tree, 
A bard mournfu* sang wi' the tear in his e*e ; 
Sae pensive his notes, and thus his sad strain — 
Nae inair Til be cheery, -ince Wilson ha> gane. 



217 



Nae mair I'll be cheery on fortune's hard surf, 
Since Apollo's best servant's laid under the turf; 
I'll ever lament, and the saut tear let fa', 
For the loss of the bard that's now dead and awa. 



Nae mair on yon rocks he'll at gloamin' recline 
Where Cartha is foaming-, its sweets to define ; 
Nae mair on its banks to his neighbouring- swains, 
He'll weave the love tale in his saft lyric strain. 
His lines sang- sae bonny, wi' harmony sweet, 
Scarce match'd yet by any they were so complete ; 
While the cauld norlan' breezes upon our hills blaw. 
We'll ever remind him that's dead and awa. 

At the end of these verses I heav'd the deep sigh, 

And the rocks echoing- round me thus seem'd to reply : 

Tell those who delight in his poetic flame, 

To sing- to his praise, and commemorate his name. 

The echoing- ceas'd, as if borne by the gale, 

To spread the sad tidings far over the dale. 

I approached the youth who sat mourning- alone, 

And we join'd in our sighs for the bard that was gone. 



FRAGMENT TO THE SAME OCCASION. 

Lament ye Paisley callans a', 

Since your best Bards are baith awa : 

For wha will nature's beauty's draw 

In Wilson's stead ; — 
And wha will grace Apollo's ha', 

Since Robin's dead.* 

* Tannahill. 



219 

THE DESPAIRING BARD. 

On this lone and rocky shore, 
Loud the wind and waters roar ; 
Sable clouds in rapid motion 
Frown upon a foaming" ocean. 
Nature's elements combine 
In similas of my tortur'd mind. 

"Tis not the howling- winds that blow, 
That pangs my bosom full of woe ; 
Nor is't the storm-convulsed main, 
'Gainst which the sailor strives in vain ; 
'Tis she — my heart will break with pain — 
Wha treats my love with cauld disdain. 

Dear to me the noisy waves, 
Soothing to me the wind that raves, 
And the dark, the clouded sky, 
Is most pleasing to my eye ; 
Even the thunder's awful roll, 
Seems congenial to my soul. 

SONG. 

Air — "My native Caledonia? 
O lassie why rows that round tear from thine eye, 
Why from thy snow-white bosom arises that sigh; 
Say, art thou wae for me, love, now forc'd by martial 

ca', 
To go and leave thee lone in Caledonia. 

I'm wae to see the tears dim thy een o' bonny blue, 
Altho' they be a pledge o' the heart that is true ; 



220 

I'm vvae that I must leave thee through fortune's 

ficlUa>tlra\v, 
I'm wae* j leave thee lone in Caledonia. 

The monarch may hae cares, and be toss'd in his 

sleep, 
The merchant may hae fear for his stores on the deep ; 
But I will have care, love, keener than them a 1 , 
And heave a sigh for thee and Caledonia. 

I love the summer's morning-, the bonny rosy dawn, 
With the new-awakened 'lark piping o'er the dewy 

lawn ; 
I love summer's gloamin 1 , the thrush at e'ening's fa', 
But my J eanie, like my life, I loe dearer than a*. 

Yon bonny gowden sun may gae doun frae the skies, 

Yon bonny siller moon may forget for to rise ; 

But while this troubled bosom the breath o' life shall 

draw, 
I'll near forget my Jean and Caledonia. 



THE WISE MENS SAYING. 

When Boag, aud Blair, and Doctor Richmond's dead. 
Our toun has lost three ornaments ind 



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